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WANTED— A WIFE 


/ 


WANTED-A WIFE 

(10 CERCO MOGLIE) 


BY 

ALFREDO PANZINI 

V\ 


AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY 

FREDERIC TABER COOPER 



NICHOLAS L. BROWN 

NEW YORK MCMXXII 



f\V 

• vA*' , 


Copyright, 1922, 

BY 

NICHOLAS L. BROWN 


SEP U?2 


r> 

©CI.A681716 

l 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I Introducing Myself 9 

II Two Conflicting Problems ... 15 

III Matrimonial List 21 

IV Fraulein Violetta 44 


V The Kequisites for a Hygienic Wife 57 
VI A Sixteenth Century Archer . . 75 

VII The Contessina Ghiselda ... 84 

VIII The Heroic Loves of the Contessina 97 


IX An Artistic Excursion . . . .105 

X The Lady of the Caramels . . .114 

XI The Double Violet 118 

XII Interviewing a Handmaid . . .121 

XIII A Second Interview with the Hand- 

maid 126 

XIV My Future Father-in-Law . . .131 

XV Attila, King of the Huns . . . 136 

XVI Dogs and Cats . 148 

XVII And Other Animals 158 

XVIII Oretta or Ghiselda? 167 


XIX My Mother-in-Law's Opinions . .170 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XX I Gain a More Intimate Footing . 173 
XXI The Beading of the Hermetic Songs 180 
XXII I Make Progress 189 

XXIII Melai 196 

XXIV Cappelletti, Champagne and Truf- 

fles 201 

XXY Heroic Deeds 20? 

XXVI An Unseemly Spectacle .... 215 

XXVII I Am Angry for the First Time . . 222 

XXVIII I Become a Philosopher for the 

First Time 229 

XXIX The Uselessness of My Best Elo- 
quence 233 

XXX Kevenge Is the Food of the Gods . 242 

XXXI Champagne, Peaches and Ham . . 250 

XXXII The Disaster 265 

XXXIII The Last Chapter Might as Well 

Have Been the First . . . .282 


WANTED— A WIFE 

(IO CERCO MOGLIE) 



















































WANTED— A WIFE 


CHAPTER I 

INTRODUCING MYSELF! 

AVALIERE Ginetto Sooner , ruddy com - 



plexion , physiognomy diffusing intelligence 
and courage , sound throughout — hair, teeth, 
physique. 

That’s me! ... In this vale of sorrow and 
of tears it is my privilege to enjoy good health. 
Even when I was still traveling with the com- 
mon herd of salesmen, my customers used to tell 
me: “Signor Sconer, you do great credit to 
your firm.” In point of fact I have always had 
a most distinguished presence. ... I keep my 
weight down to 175 pounds. 

And now let us pass on to the moral balance 
sheet. This is equally in my favor. I have a 
well-balanced and serene disposition, and I am 
glad of it, because fortune favors those who are 
thus endowed. Still it is not true that I am so 
lacking in sensibility that if I should receive a 
kick in the latter end of the alphabet — to employ 


9 


10 


WANTED— A WIFE 


one of Lionello’s vulgar witticisms — my face 
would betray no signs of emotion. 

At all events I am not excitable. Excitable 
people do not live long. Achilles , an excitable 
person, died young. This sentence is contained 
in the advertising booklet issued by our house, 
entitled, What I Must Do to Prolong My Life . 

The scientific part of the booklet was in- 
trusted to Dr. Pertusius; but the moral part is 
my own creation. 

“It’s a fact,” Dr. Pertusius observed to me, 
“that excitable and sensitive individuals are as 
short-lived as they are unhappy, because they 
expend too much vital energy. 

“In that case let us recommend Yitaline/’ said 

I. 

“But there’s no such thing as Yitaline !” said 
the doctor. 

“That makes no difference, we will create it: 
Yitaline , elixir of life, a product of our House.” 

“That’s just bluff,” said the doctor. 

“What of it? Bluff has a right to exist so 
long as anybody exists who will let himself be 
bluffed.” 

The doctor had written: “Avoid all mental 
troubles!” and I added, “When trouble ap- 
proaches you along the right hand path, there 
is no plausible reason why you should not choose 
to follow the path to the left.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


11 


“But you,” said the doctor,” are thinking only 
of your own precious carcass!” 

I was amazed at his ironic tone. 

“One owes oneself that duty, my dear doctor.” 

One of my lady customers used to tell me that 
the price of my Ideal Violet was rather high. 

“My dear lady,” I replied, “if I sold it cheaper 
perhaps I might make more money; but ladies 
of fashion, like yourself, would desert my shop ; 
and if I confessed that it is called Ideal because 
it is not made of real violets, but of coal-tar, I 
wonder if you would understand?” 

“You are not very honest!” said the lady. 

“Is it any more honest for an aged hen to try 
and masquerade as a spring chicken?” 

That was the answer I should have made her 
if I had not been a gentleman. Ah, yes! I am 
almost too scrupulous ; and when I think of cer- 
tain financial giants, I cannot resist telling my- 
self: “It’s true, Ginetto, you are not quite at 
the top notch, but you are a perfect gentleman,” 
and that is always something to be proud of. 

And when I think that twenty years ago I 
started in business without a centime to my 
name, and that to-day I am the head of the firm 
of X ... & Co., Ltd., and one of the Board of 
Directors of the Y . . . Manufacturing Co., 
and in such capacity exert considerable personal 
influence in financial matters, I cannot resist 


12 


WANTED— A WIFE 


telling myself, “Ginetto, you are a great man !” 

Thanks to a lucky bargain, I recently be- 
came owner of a dwelling in rococo style situ- 
ated in one of the most modern quarters of the 
city. The two upper floors are rented to quiet 
and select tenants. The ground floor and ad- 
joining garden are reserved for myself. I have 
polished floors, a dining-room Renaissance style, 
a parlor Louis Quinze style, a bed-room Em- 
pire style, with a mahogany bed, and an adjoin- 
ing dressing-room Liberty style. Above the bed 
hangs a tapestry with a Holy Family designed 
by a distinguished painter. My housekeeper is 
named Desdemona. She was for many years 
in the service of a princely house, and her aspect 
is somewhat forbidding. Although very re- 
served, she nevertheless allowed herself to make 
this observation : -“There is many a young lady, 
Cavaliere, whom you might make very happy!” 

“Do you really think so?” 

“I really do, Signore.” 

Regularity is one of my most notable quali- 
ties. I leave home at ten o’clock in the morn- 
ing, scrupulously shaven, and with collar and 
necktie in perfect order, because this is not only 
a duty that every distinguished individual owes 
himself, but it is also a necessity where one has 
a large personnel under one’s direction. I 


WANTED— A WIFE 


13 


transact my business and at night return home 
to dine in my own house. When I look around 
and touch my possessions, I enjoy to the full 
the sensation of really living. I often enter- 
tain my friends, Lionello among others, a hand- 
some fellow, blond like myself, and the author 
of books that are quite popular. He said to 
me the other day: 

“I don’t understand it : I am one of the few 
men of genius remaining in Italy; and yet I 
never have a thousand lire to spare.” 

“Look here,” I answered, “You and I are both 
artists, and we both have an exact estimate 
of our public: you give them your books; I 
give them my products. We both make money : 
but the money obeys one of its laws, that is, it 
escapes from some people. . . 

“Like me,” said Lionello. 

“Precisely; and it takes refuge with other 
people favored by fate.” 

“Like you,” said Lionello. 

“Precisely,” said I. 

“Let us change places,” said Lionello. 

“It can’t be done, because that would mean 
that you would have to pass into my skin and 
I into yours. You were born to spend and I 
to save. But you are much luckier than your 
poor Ginetto, because when you are dead you 


14 


WANTED— A WIFE 


will leave your name inscribed upon the im- 
mortal tablets of glory ; but as for me, to whom 
shall I leave my capital?” 

“Leave it to me,” said Lionello. 

“Well, why not, my friend? I am sure that 
no one could spend it more agreeably than you. 
But it is impossible, because you, Lionello, 
will die first, since you consume too much vital 
energy. I, on the contrary, am destined to live 
at least to the age of ninety-nine; and to save, 
save, save continually, in accordance with the 
will of the Lord.” 


CHAPTER II 


TWO CONFLICTING PROBLEMS 
ES, in all probability I shall hang on to the 



X age of ninety-nine years, the limit set by 
Dr. Pertusius for men who are well balanced 
and serene, and also the limit prescribed by 
Moses for the men who are just. After that it 
may happen that I shall die, although there 
are certain things which I must see before I 
believe them. But granting this, they will 
give me a splendid funeral. But afterwards? 
Afterwards, nobody knows what happens next; 
and that is precisely why I keep my moral bal- 
ance sheet in perfect order. But it is certain 
that if I, Ginetto Sconer, had an heir who 
took after me, with a nose like mine, with eyes 
like mine, with a heart like mine, that is, well 
balanced and serene, I should come back to live 
for a second time in my heir; and from my tomb 
I should hear the consoling words: “What an 
excellent man my father was, for he has enabled 
me to live as comfortably as a bug in a rug!” 
But in order to have an heir, I must have a 
son, and to that end I must acquire a wife. Yes, 


15 


16 


WANTED— A WIFE 


I know, my brilliant qualities have made me 
much sought after, and not a few people have 
repeated what my housekeeper said : "You 
could have, you still could, you still can make 
many a young lady happy.” All the same, I 
never altogether liked the sound of that word 
matrimony. I remember that Lionello has fre- 
quently assured me that the cases of conjugal 
fidelity definitely proven, as he himself had 
cause to deplore (his own word, "deplore”), were 
very few. That is disquieting, not because of 
tragic consequences, which I should avoid at 
any cost, but because it might throw doubt 
upon the authenticity of my heir. 

But now, since Lionello has acquired more 
advanced ideas, he scornfully heaps abuse upon 
me because I am thinking of marrying at all. 

"But, my dear fellow,” I answered, "you, being 
the artist that you are, find it profitable to lead, 
so to speak, a disorderly life. But I, if only 
for the sake of my business, am a man of order ; 
and matrimony is as much a social convention 
as, on certain occasions a frock coat and a top 
hat. Besides, I want a son.” 

"Sons belong to humanity at large,” said Lion- 
ello. 

"That is all right for you,” I rejoined, who 
count yourself a part of humanity at large. 
But I want a son of my own.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


17 


I might also have remarked that he showed 
no little ingratitude towards matrimony, be- 
cause it had given him some fine triangular sit- 
uations for his plots, but out of delicacy I re- 
frained from mentioning this. 

For some time past, the problem of an heir 
has been further complicated by the impres- 
sive phenomenon of a renascence of my youth. 
I, who up to a few years ago, could come and 
go tranquilly, am now seriously perturbed. I 
stop to look at the pretty girls! How many 
there are of them ! I never used to realize there 
were so many! Even the girls of the people, 
who walk the streets with a tango step, swing- 
ing a shopping-bag, with its contents of a little 
mirror, a powder puff, a little parcel of sau- 
sage — I like even them! It is very strange! 

These dear girls translate themselves into 
sensations of dessert: cream of swirling skirts, 
apricot ices with strawberry lips, rum punches 
with dancing slippers that set my head to whirl- 
ing. Oh, bewitching little guttersnipes, why 
will you peck at my poor tender heart? There 
are certain little heads so daintily poised that 
it would be a delight to wring them off and use 
them for wall decorations for my sitting-room. 
But alas, although in business affairs I am mag- 
nificently venturesome, when I find myself a 


18 


WANTED— A WIFE 


guest at the feast of beauty, I become shame- 
fully prudent. 

Elementary common sense makes me exclude 
shop-girls, stenographers, telephone operators 
and other young women of that class from my 
list of matrimonial possibilities; but I confess 
that they have given me many anxious hours. 

. . . Even the homely ones, by the time I have 
seen them twice, begin to look pretty. 

Since I have a Bechstein piano in my sitting 
room, I decided to take some piano lessons. At 
the first lesson my music teacher struck me as 
uninteresting, at the second she became notice- 
able, at the third, alluring, at the fourth posi- 
tively dangerous. In view of the fact that the 
lady had a most evil looking husband, I said to 
myself, “Grinetto, safety first!” and I handed 
the lady an envelope containing payment in full 
for her services. But every time that I play 
upon my Bechstein, presto! I see the music 
teacher, and a whole bevy of pretty girls flit- 
ting across my ceiling, and gazing down at me 
with their big, china-blue eyes. 

Disturbed by this excessive sensibility I con- 
sulted Dr. Pertusius about it. All he said 
about it was: 

“That is a symptom of the dangerous age.” 

“Deuce take you, Doctor! Do men have a 
dangerous age?” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


19 


“Of course they do,” said the doctor. 

There was something that I didn’t know. 
Now that I think of it, my ship of life crossed 
the latitude of my thirtieth year some time ago, 
and has been steering toward the fortieth, but 
has not yet reached that parallel. 

“Tell me, Doctor, is the dangerous age really 
dangerous?” 

“Decidedly so, since it shifts the burden from 
the automatic portions of the human machinery 
to the noble organ of the brain.” 

Taking advantage of my friendly relations 
with Dr. Pertusius, I confided to him that the 
sight of certain sentimental little heads sup- 
ported on slender throats left bare by the pre- 
vailing low-necked fashion, filled me with a 
desire to chop them off. 

“A symptom for which we doctors have a 
special name,” said Pertusius. 

“Is it a serious symptom?” I asked. 

“No, not so long as you don’t chop their heads 
off, but there have been cases where they did 
chop them off!” 

“Why is it, Doctor,” I asked, “that the sight 
of rosy shoulders tinged with pale olive, re- 
vealed by a low-cut gown, gives me strange 
little thrills?” 

“Make believe,” advised the doctor, “that you 
are looking at the under side of a lizard . r ” 


20 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“I get you,” said I, “But it can’t be done !” 

“Very true,” he said gravely. 

“And at your age, Doctor, does it never hap- 
pen to you?” 

“We needn’t go into that,” said he. 

I regard doctors with a sort of indulgent mis- 
trust, because their everlasting study of mal- 
adies has ended by making them regard even 
health itself as just another form of disease. 

At all events, it is quite clear that even as a 
matter of physical well-being I must get mar- 
ried, I must find a wife, both for my own sake 
and for the sake of an heir. 

Here is a list of eligible young women — of 
good social standing, naturally — that I have 
jotted down in my pocket note-book as matrimo- 
nial possibilities. 


CHAPTER III 


MATRIMONIAL LIST 

S IGNORINA A. : Satisfactory dowry, fine 
presence, distinguished family, conjectural 
weight, 150 pounds. Very attractive to-day but 
her father is enormously stout; her mother, 
ditto. Hereditary tendency to obesity. Re- 
jected for aesthetic reasons. 

Signorina B. : Too many school diplomas. 
She knows all the dates by heart. Her prom- 
inent forehead betrays her intelligence. She is 
all the time saying : “I was born to be a writer.” 
After marriage, she is quite capable of writing 
me up for the papers ! Ah, no ! Too much fore- 
head, and not nearly enough hair. 

Signorina C. : She is forever asking, “Do I 
look all right? And the moment you look at her, 
she says: “Why are you staring at me? It 
isn’t nice to stare!” She laughs at nothing at 
all. Another woman asked her where she could 
get such well-fitting corsets *as hers. “I don’t 
wear corsets,” she answered, “I am pretty 
21 


22 


WANTED — A WIFE 


enough just as I am.” At a lecture, she did 
nothing but ridicule another woman who wore 
yellow shoes. “Making such a show of her feet, 
when they are big as flower-pots, and with rub- 
ber heels besides!” 

When she is out walking, she casts side- 
glances into every window. “Mamma, does my 
dress hang all right? Does it hang wrong? Is 
it straight? Is it crooked? “Yes, darling!” 
But what mamma doesn’t ^ee and I do, is that 
daughter is a silly little fool. And my heir has 
got to be intelligent. 

Signorina D. : A charming girl; but too gen- 
erous hearted toward all men who flock about 
her. Her excessive kindliness is responsible for 
her having been sent away from one school after 
another. A dear girl, but she offers the disad- 
vantage that while the heir would be legally my 
son, he would hot necessarily resemble Ginetto 
Sconer. 

Signorina E. : Curly headed, slender, almost 
too thin, nicknamed “Peach Blossom.” Signor- 
ina B., the one “born to be a writer/’ sent word 
to her that “Pumpkin Blossom would be a more 
appropriate name. Peach Blossom retorted, 
“walking dictionary !” The young woman born 


WANTED— A WIFE 


23 


to be a writer rejoined, “Broomstick in skirts!” 
To which Peach Blossom replied, “Broomstick 
in skirts, if yOu like, but a female broomstick, 
which is more than you will ever be! And, 
what is more, a full bust measure has gone out 
of fashion.” Signorina E. possessed an exces- 
sive readiness of tongue that gives me food for 
thought. What is more, she wants to know if 
I snore. “All husbands snore. Mamma says so.” 

Signorina F. : As beautiful as a head by 
Murillo; but what advantage is that when she 
can never say anything but, “Oh yes! ... Wait 
a minute ! . . . Why, the idea !” 

I don’t know that painter Murillo, but he must 
have painted heavenly pictures, for she is al- 
ways up in the clouds. 

“Signorina, what do you like best? Reading, 
working, cooking?” 

“I just love housework!” But her own room 
would horrify my housekeeper Desdemona. The 
only housework she does is to polish her nails, 
and when no one is looking wave her hand in 
the air to make the blood run out of it. 

“Signorina, what are you reading? The lat- 
est news of the war?” 

Not at all; she was reading the personal 
column. 


24 


WANTED— A WIFE 


Signorina G. : “Soars upward in a slender, 
flawless shaft,” as Lionello says, but she makes 
the mistake of going around accompanied by 
her mother, who perhaps once on a time was an- 
other Slender, flawless shaft, but to-day is bent 
into an arch. A clever girl ought to avoid 
being seen with a mother who offers a prophetic 
picture of what she herself is destined to 
become. Besides, the son of Ginetto Sooner 
must be a rugged oak, and not a slender 
shaft. 

Signorina H. : Daughter of an architectural 
engineer, and a very graceful specimen of her 
father’s structural work, done in my favorite 
style, Louis- Quinzei. She looks like a big doll, 
and her name is Noemi. She wears corkscrew 
curls like those you see in old prints. She af- 
fects great languidness and a ^oft, drawling 
voice. But appearances are deceitful. I over- 
heard her one day, in her father’s office, rais- 
ing the rents of all his tenants. That young 
woman, I said to myself, has some good quali- 
ties! But another day I heard a strident voice 
loud enough to raise the roof: “Get a move 
on ! Get a move on ! Patience isn’t my middle 
name, you know ! You’re a fool, an idiot ! Here 
goes my slipper straight in your mummy face!” 
“Bing!” “Ouch!” It was Noemi, soft gentle 


WANTED— A WIFE 


25 


name, talking to her maid. That young woman 
impresses me as dangerous. 

Signorina J. : Daughter of a friend of mine, 
a wealthy manufacturer. We stayed at the 
same hotel in Viareggio for something more than 
a week. I don’t know what she would be like 
in winter ; but she is fine in summer time. She 
is so cool and breezy that she makes you feel as 
if you were sitting next to a water-ice. 

She is rather absent-minded. “Signorina, 
does this belong to you?” The chamber maid, 
the porter, the bell-boy, were constantly asking 
her, “Signorina, does this belong to you?” 
Whenever she arose, she left something behind 
her, gloves, parasol, picture postcards. I rescued 
a lace handkerchief every time we went out walk- 
ing together. 

“Clara, can’t you be a little more careful?” her 
mother would say. 

“It doesn’t matter, Mamma,” she would an- 
swer. It doesn’t matter Signor Sconer, does it? 
It is so nice not to bother about remembering 
things. What if things do get lost? It’s up 
to papa !” 

“Yes, she is a little thoughtless,” mamma 
confided to me, “but she is so good-hearted, that 
little girl of mine, and she is always going to 
be so happy! For she will never remember 


26 


WANTED — A WIFE 


to-morrow what happened to-day.” At all events 
she was a sufficiently charming companion to 
make a man forget everything else, aside from 
herself. She went so far as to promise solemnly 
that she would remember me. But one day, when 
I was talking of my acquaintances, I happened 
to mention that I knew Lionello, after which she 
never left me in peace. “Really? You know 
Lionello, the one who writes those delightfully 
sentimental novels? How delightful ! What is 
he like? Is it true that he is quite young, and 
that he wears his hair cut Russian style, like 
Gorki? Is it true that he is very romantic? 
Write to him ! Yes, yes, write and tell him that 
he must come to Yiareggio. I promise that I 
will be ever so nice to you if you do.” 

To think of her calling those novels of Lion- 
ello’ s “sentimental!” My housekeeper, Desde- 
mona, read just one of them, and has been 
scandalized ever since. 

Signorina K. : I met her under most favor- 
able conditions, just recovering from a disap- 
pointment in love. Her father was still debat- 
ing harsh measures : “In England or America a 
man is made to pay heavily for a breach of 
promise.” Accordingly I tried as tactfully as 
possible to console the young lady, when she 
pulled me up short : “What are you driving at? 


WANTED— A WIFE 


27 


Are you all afraid that I shall commit suicide in 
my despair or go into a convent? Not a bit of 
it! When I get ready IT1 find another man, so 
that’s that. One nail drives out another.” 

“You really think so, my dear girl?” 

“Why, of course! A pretty woman can al- 
ways find plenty of new nails. You yourself, 
Sconer, for example. If I chose I would have 
you down on all fours at my feet.” 

She very nearly used to sit in my lap, be- 
cause that is what the actress, Clara de los Dol- 
ores, often does on the stage. A fascinating 
young woman, but much too exigent in the 
conditions she lays down for conjugal liberty, 
and expects me to agree to. Preposterous! 

Signorina L. : Acquaintance formed at the 
Bristol Hotel. It was at the time of the earth- 
quake in the Abbruzzi. Every one was sighing : 
“How horrible! What fearful loss of life! 
Little children crushed to death!” Signorina 
L., seated on a sofa, sighed like the rest; “How 
horrible ! What fearful loss of life ! Little 
children crushed to death!” But even while 
she was speaking I could see her looking at her- 
self in the mirror, and giving surreptitious 
little touches to her dress to make the drapery 
hang right. It reminded me of my housekeeper, 
Desdemona, when she is getting ready to turn 


28 


WANTED — A WIFE 


over a pan of hash. She kept watching herself 
out of the tail of her eye in the mirror, 
and trying new effects with the draping, to 
the accompaniment of: “How horrible! Is 
it possible? Little children crushed to 
death !” 

She keeps on posing even when she is alone. 
I asked her why and she replied: “When the 
stars and the moon look down upon us from the 
firmament, it is proper that we should assume 
a dignified attitude.” 

“I get your idea, but don’t they see rather 
more than they are entitled to?” 

“What if they do? Don’t you think I am 
worth looking at?” 

This young lady is altogether to aesthetic. 

Signorina M. : English by birth, very lady- 
like, very much admired in the parlors of the 
hotel at the watering place where she was tak- 
ing the waters. But who could be making the 
earthquake that was taking place in a room near 
my own? And who could be singing those much 
too merry songs, even if they were in the Eng- 
lish language? It turned out to be Miss M. 
What is more, she used to drink brandy, and 
danced the latest tango steps with another girl 
friend. England can’t be trusted, even if she 
is one of the Allies. 


WANTED— A WIFE 


29 


This note concerns the young woman who 
caused me the most suffering of all. I call her 
Signorina N. Y. , standing for New York, be- 
cause she is the American type. None the less, 
she is Italian, and belongs to the same distin- 
guished class as I; before the war her father 
was an exporter of Italian medicines made in 
Germany, with his main office in New York. 
Miss N. Y. is wealthy, and thinks that she rules 
the universe. She is twenty years old, slightly 
under medium stature, but physically strong. 
She is the picture of health, and the incarnation 
of high spirits. She is just the type to give my 
heir the best chance. Her voice, tinged with 
Parisian rolling r, seems to be perpetually sing- 
ing the hymn of youth. Cheep-cheep! she sings 
from the branches of the tree of life. Her 
parents have given her a degree of liberty al- 
most too American. Cheep-cheep! I met her 
once at a fair for the benefit of the Red Cross, 
where she wheedled a hundred francs even from 
me. Cheep-cheep! I saw her another evening 
at a futurist lecture. She understood the whole 
of it, and was enthusiastic. Cheep-cheep! I 
have seen her skating, and cutting patterns like 
a hieroglyphist. Cheep-cheep! I have seen her 
at the wheel driving an automobile. Cheep- 
cheep! I saw her at the funeral of the banker, 
Rodh. She sat in front with her mother, and 


30 


WANTED— A WIFE 


I behind with her father, and we talked busi- 
ness. Except in unavoidable cases like that of 
the banker, Rodh, I avoid funerals, because it 
seems to me that in the presence of the bier 
everybody turns pallid, and it must be bad for 
the health. But Miss N. Y. even dressed in 
black, was resplendent. Cheep-cheep ! The ex- 
uberant creature! Life for her is just a tree 
on which all she has to do is to change branches 
— in other words, change her clothes — and sing 
her hymn: Cheep-cheep! 

She speaks Italian well, but when she talks 
to her dog, a highly educated dog, she speaks 
French. 

I once had the honor of entertaining her in my 
home, because her father and mother wanted to 
look at the second floor of the house, which was 
then vacant. On that occasion we were left alone. 

“How magnificent,” she said, referring to my 
dwelling. 

“Ah, yes,” I replied. “Formerly the palace 
of the Counts of Tornamali, but to-day it is my 
property, Miss N. !” 

But she saw an English divan, sprang fore- 
ward and seated herself on it, bounded up then 
curled herself up in one corner: “This is so 
comfortable!” It was the month of May, and 
she wore a sport hat of white tulle dotted over 
with big black beads, under the brim of which 


WANTED — A WIFE 


31 


one glimpsed her profile with its dainty little 
nose. Her white frock was partly covered by 
a sort of embroidered blouse with dragons and 
serpents in gold and silver. Her pretty arms 
were covered with long white kid gloves, and 
her stockings were also white, and were daringly 
displayed with the little low white slippers. 
She made me think of some species of oriental 
squirrel. 

Bless my soul, to think of possessing a pre- 
cious little animal like this for one’s very own! 
If I should stretch out my arms to her, she 
would leap into them and nestle right down. 

As a matter of fact, she suddenly sprang up 
from her seat and began to cheep-cheep again: 

“There is one thing you haven’t got, Sconer.” 

“One thing I haven’t got?” 

“Yes, you have no library.” 

“So I haven’t.” 

“Make a note of it!” 

“I am making a note of it.” 

She rattled off a list of books in off and eff . 

“Russian writers?” I asked. 

“Yes, the Russians are so interesting!” she 
said. Then she gave me another name which 
I wasn’t able to take down. 

“Rabindranath Tagore! A poet without a 
peer. He makes a little child talk to its mother 
in a most delicious way.” 


32 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“And yon, Miss N.,” I asked meaningly, 
“would you be willing to think about making a 
little child talk in the same delicious way?” 

“Think of marrying you mean? Of course. 
But in Italy marriage offers one serious disad- 
vantage.” 

“What it that, Miss N ” 

“When a girl marries she settles down.” 

“You mean?” 

“I mean that she is no longer free, she can 
no longer run about, no longer flirt or dance or 
dictate or do as she pleases. I want my liberty ! 
I want to marry in America where one can get 
a divorce later on and remarry if one chooses 
to. In Italy matrimony is an institution 
founded on infidelity. In America it is founded 
on liberty !” 

At that moment, if my business had permit- 
ted it, I would have agreed to go to America. 

Signorina O. : A terrible young woman, but 
quite wealthy. Where did she ever learn to 
roll her eyes like that? The tone of her com- 
plexion was prodigious, but not in the least nat- 
ural ; it was transparent ! It seemed as though 
she could not have been born like other women, 
but must have been sculptured by some magic 
artist from the pulp of one of those yellow, 
yellow quinces. She dressed with the most ex- 


WANTED— A WIFE 


33 


traordinary taste; she always wore dresses of 
delicate hues, pale, dubious tints, harmonizing 
with the tone of her skin. I do not know whether 
she was really beautiful, for I was more than 
half bewitched. “Keep that tongue hidden !” I 
used to tell her, because every few minutes she 
would stick out the tip of her tongue between her 
lips; and that at least was not pale, but bright 
red. “At all events hide those ankles !” Because 
she had a habit of amply displaying her ankles, 
as diaphanous as all the rest of her in their al- 
most colorless silk stockings and slippers. 

“Do my ankles disturb you?” 

“They give me sleepless nights!” 

She retorted bluntly : “If you want to marry 
me, Signor Sconer, seize your opportunity while 
I am still free.” 

I would have liked to marry her; but she her- 
self blocked one of the two objects that induced 
me to consider marriage at all. She refused to 
have children, “Because it was apt to spoil the 
complexion.” I wanted the lady, but I also 
wanted an heir. She said, “yes” for her own 
part but emphatically “no” for the heir. “It is 
only the peasantry,” she declared “who marry 
to have children.” 

Furthermore, she exacted as a further con- 
dition of marriage, that her husband should ex- 
ercise for twenty minutes every morning with 


34 


WANTED— A WIFE 


forty-pound chest-weights. She is another of 
the young women who have caused me much suf- 
fering. 

Signorina P. : Beautiful # or homely accord- 
ing to how she strikes you. I met her during a 
vacation. She goes everywhere on a bicycle. 
When she walks she has a rather ungainly gait. 
None the less she is very charming! She can 
stick her father’s felt hat on her head, she can 
throw a nun’s cloak over her shoulders — as she 
often does — and still have an air of elegance. 
She has the sharp little teeth of a lynx, a pointed 
nose, a pointed chin, and her eyes are like two 
black dots: And all these various points are 
so mobile they make one’s head swim. She is 
as pale as wax, but she is never ill. She has 
long, wavy, riotous hair, which she has to twist 
like serpents, around and around her head. 
When unbound it reaches below her knee. The 
most puzzling thing of all is how she could ever 
have taken her university degree if she had to 
sit still in order to study; it is evident that one 
can get a doctorate without studying. 

But when I hear her called “Doctor,” it gives 
me something of a shock. She has a fresh, high- 
pitched, lilting voice, and one never knows what 
she means to say, because she never finishes a 


WANTED— A WIFE 


35 


sentence. She never loses her temper; at the 
most, she utters a little cry like a gazelle. What 
is she going to do? Where is she headed? 
How will she end up? There is no telling! 
Yet the girl has brains. 

She is not after the men; they are after her. 
She is more than indifferent, and often auda- 
ciously outspoken. But she never forgets that 
she is a lady! 

She is officially betrothed to a young man 
with money back of him. He follows her 
around dutifully on a bicycle. She calls him, 
“Stupid !” “Big Boob !” “Poor Fish !” “Papa’s 
darling !” And it makes him quite happy. She 
does not strike me as a girl adapted to domes- 
ticity, and I told her so in polite terms, in the 
presence of her betrothed. She replied: 

“What’s the odds? He’ll do the housekeep- 
ing.” 

“I will be her lady’s maid,” he said in con- 
firmation. 

Another day when I met her again, in com- 
pany with the young man, in a lonely path in 
the woods, I asked her: 

“Speaking frankly, aren’t you running a risk 
spending whole days in the woods alone with 
this young man?” 

“He is as harmless as a glass of water,” she 


36 


WANTED— A WIFE 


replied. “I have promised to give him a kiss 
some day next week. Isn’t it true, Stupid, that 
I promised you a kiss for next week?” 

Her fiance replied, “How angry the God of 
Love must be at seeing how much you make me 
suffer !” 

“You deserve even more than you get,” she 
said. 

Her fiance replied, “It is really quite true, as 
Cavaliere Sconer says, that you never were in- 
tended for marriage !” 

“It’s you rather than I who aren’t meant for 
it,” she answered. And she said to me pri- 
vately : “How can I ever bring myself to marry 
such a timid man? The fact is, that the young 
men of the present day are impossible! They 
are all so painfully reformed. Tell me, Sconer, 
how long must I be faithful to a man like that? 
But what’s the use? I am naturally a decent 
sort of girl, and I never could go wrong with 
my eyes open.” 

I could have taken that fiance’s place with- 
out risk of unpleasant complications. And yet 
I too turned out to be the timid sort. Why? 
Perhaps it was that title of “Doctor” that made 
me hesitate. 

Signorina Q. : A queer type, and so is her 
mother. 


WANTED— A WIFE 


37 


“Signor Sconer,” the mother said, “look!” 

“At what?” 

“Oh, I can’t tell you! But can’t you see for 
yourself?” 

“No !” 

“Don’t you see my little girl’s eyes? How 
they shine ! I don’t know — it is very strange — 
but as soon as we come to a new place, within 
a fortnight my little girl is proclaimed the pret- 
tiest girl there.” 

Beyond question she is very charming. A 
dashing personality, with lots of style. But 
why does the mother call her, “my beautiful 
odalisque.” Where did she find that word? 
And whatever does she think it means? “Sig- 
nor Sconer,” the mother says, “did you see?” 

“See what?” 

“A war aeroplane.” 

“That’s nothing unusual!” 

“Yes, I know — but — ” very mysteriously and 
with half-closed eyes : “There is one thing that 
you haven’t noticed!” 

“What is that?” 

“That whenever an aviator passes by, he al- 
ways flies low down. Do you know why? In 
order to see my beautiful odalisque!” 

The daughter talks the same way. She says: 
“I don’t understand — Isn’t it strange! I no 
sooner come to a place than every one says I 


38 


WANTED— A WIFE 


am the prettiest girl there. They say that I 
look like Lyda Borelli — that’s what they say!” 
She describes her trousseau, the length and 
width of the lingerie, the lace trimmings of real 
Valenciennes; she describes the gowns made by 
the famous Abeille, the leading dress-maker of 
Turin, who has so many high-class mannequins, 
who also give French lessons. She had all her 
dresses made in Egyptian style! “Everything 
Egyptian is the height of style just now,” she 
says. And after all, she can’t wear them, be- 
cause she has joined the Red Cross. 

“If you could only see, Signor Sconer,” her 
mother says, “how becoming the Red Cross uni- 
form is to* her! When she goes through a hos- 
pital ward, the wounded all sit straight up!” 
But the other Red Cross nurses treated her out- 
rageously. She had to be sent to one of the 
receiving stations. At the station she carried 
water to a whole trainful of Austrian prisoners. 
Her mother says that she did this because she 
is so tender-hearted. But the other women say 
that it was because she didn’t know they were 
Austrians. Her fiance was killed in the war, 
and she wears a locket with his portrait on 
her breast. Furthermore, she is very patriotic. 

“One day,” her mother narrates, “When we 
were at five o’clock tea, with a number of dis- 
tinguished people, a procession of socialists 


WANTED— A WIFE 


39 


marched by. My little girl went to the window 
and waved a red, white and green handkerchief, 
crying, ‘Long live Italy !’ It was a crucial mo- 
ment for us all, and almost precipitated a revolu- 
tion !” The other ladies, on the contrary, in- 
sist that she mistook the socialist procession for 
a patriotic celebration. Now that her fiance of 
record, so to speak, is dead, she has a host of 
others. “How about this one? Or that one? 
Or the other? Does he come of a distinguished 
family? Do you think, Signor Sconer,” mother 
and daughter both asked me in one breath, 
“that he really and truly comes of a distin- 
guished family?” I myself passed for twenty- 
four hours as her fiance of record. A very se- 
rious matter, let me tell you! Because, even 
if she does entertain you by describing her lin- 
gerie with the Valenciennes laces, it ceases to be 
a joke when she goes on to tell you that she 
has a brother that can “act like a gentleman 
or a tramp, according to circumstances, and 
looks like Maciste, the moving-picture star.” 

“Where is this brother of yours?” I asked with 
some concern. 

“At the front.” 

A clever lad! No sooner had the war broken 
out than his commercial instinct had prompted 
him to go to the front and buy up — what they 
probably gave him for nothing — the hides of all 


40 


WANTED— A WIFE 


the cattle that died in the fields or were slaugh- 
tered for the soldiers. His father was a shoe- 
maker — so it is easy to understand how they 
now have one of the largest boot and shoe es- 
tablishments in Italy. 

The history of this brother who looks like the 
movie star has greatly cooled my ardor. 

Signorina R. : She is not a patriot, but a 
pianist. 

“I am super-sensitive/’ she says ; and her 
mother also says, “Mary, poor child, is super- 
sensitive !” “We artists,” says Mary, “are a 
race apart. What is the war to me? What is 
it to me who commands and who is commanded? 
What have I in common with Salandra, who 
declared war? What have I in common with 
the Kaiser? Then why try to draw me into 
their quarrels? The Kaiser and the King of the 
Hottentots are one and the same to me.” 

She plays Moskowski, Stravinsky, Debussy, 
Ravel. Did I say “plays”? She would like to 
play but she can’t. She extends over the key- 
board (to borrow her own words), her long slim 
hands with nails of polished onyx , and then 
strange things happen, as I myself Saw one 
day when they came to try my Bechstein. She 
began, and suddenly, almost at once, she turned 
pale. “See how white she has grown,” the 


WANTED— A WIFE 


41 


mother said, “it is always like that ! Oh, it is 
terrible ! She is going into a trance.” “A little 
brandy !” I suggested. She partly recovered 
and said : “When I play my veins empty, 
dreams overpower me, my hair slips unbound 
over my shoulders like the serpents of the fabled 
Medusa. Ravel’s music, which I adore, exas- 
perates my sensibility like a piercing auger ; the 
instant that I touch the keys I feel the magne- 
tism.” Here again, as regards my heir, there 
is simply nothing doing. And besides such ex- 
aggerated sensibility is not without its dangers. 

Signorina S. : Her favorite perfume is 
Trefle Incarnat ; even I could recognize it. She 
is a sort of young girl prodigy, on the analogy 
of so-called infant prodigies. According to 
others she is a sort of young girl Sphynx. Lion- 
ello, however, who insists that only imbeciles 
believe in a female Sphynx, calls her the “multi- 
form Proteus.” She is under medium size, with 
sharp features that project like the muzzle of 
a young rat, and her small blue eyes are hard and 
slightly crossed. Sha dresses and does her hair 
with a severity that is almost conventional ; but 
the minute she gets upon her feet she is all 
elasticity, and does certain strange and nimble 
ritualistic dances that make you shudder, and 
set you to studying history anew, because they 


42 


WANTED— A WIFE 


are the dances of Salome, of Cleopatra, of Sybil, 
of St. Theresa. She is very young, but her 
yoice has certain deep inflections like the voice 
of a mature woman, when she- is meeting some 
argument, perhaps some point of philosophy 
with men who understand it. On the other 
hand, if she is in the mood, she can imitate the 
gesture and voice of any one: in dialect, in 
French and even in German, depending on who 
it is. It is enough that she has seen them just 
once. She has even imitated me! This is her 
comic side; but she has also a tragic side, be- 
cause she recites certain verses in French about 
Pelleas and M61isande in a way that thrills one 
with terror. If this young woman should go 
upon the stage she would reap a harvest of 
golden glory. But there is no question of that 
sort of thing. She has no higher desire than 
to be the willing slave of the right man, and 
live in a cottage. But there is one condition: 
the right man must be a magnificent lover ! 
There are plenty of candidates, but not one of 
them is magnificent. What she wants for a 
lover is a cave man, a TJlysses of the great con- 
quering arm. So far she has not found him. 
Meanwhile, one college student has killed him- 
self for her sake; one staid married man with 
wife and children has gone mad ; and an artillery 
captain went back to the front with his head so 


WANTED— A WIFE 


43 


addled that instead of firing on the Austrians 
he massacred some of our own troops; after 
w r hich he disappeared. 

As for me, I beat a retreat. 

But here is an advertisement in a German 
paper that offers me an heir already made. 

“Christliches, Einziges Gluck ! Sehr nettes, ehrliches 
Madchen, mit einem Kinde und sehr reicher Aussteuer, 
sucht einen ehrlichen Gatten.” 

Which means : “Christian family, rare opportun- 
ity! Nice, respectable girl with one child and 
a fine trousseau, wants a steady reliable hus- 
band.” That is the German method of dumping. 


CHAPTER IV 


FRAULEIN VIOLETTA 

IONELLO,” said I one day, “among all 



I J those marvellous heroines of yours that 
you persist in killing off, isn’t there a single one 
you could spare that would do for me?” 

In his novels Lionello has all his women die 
a romantic death. His fair readers write to 
him from all parts of the country: “Don’t let 
her die, do save her! She is so dear, so lovely. 
She mustn’t die.” 

But he is inexorable; in one way or another 
he kills them all. 

“Don’t be an ass !” was the way Lionello met 
my request. 

I begged him to explain himself. 

“My heroines,” he said, “are either killed or 
kill themselves because my public demands it. 
My public is no cleaner minded than you are; 
but it is strong on moral lessons. It seems in- 
credible, but that’s how it is! Now even you 
can quite understand that no one can make 
dramas or romances out of moral lessons ! 
Only, when I make my heroines die I have puri- 


44 


WANTED — A WIFE 


45 


fied them, and there is your moral lesson already 
made. It’s the same as when you take rancid 
fats to make your dainty soaps. But in real life 
my heroines enjoy the best of health, you can 
be sure of that !” 

“In that case spare me one of them.” 

“Impossible !” replied Lionello. 

“Why so?” 

“Because no one of my heroines could ever 
possibly love you.” 

“Why do you say that, Lionello? Why mark 
me down so low? Come, I’m not such a scare- 
crow as all that !” 

“No, my dear fellow. On the contrary, you 
are quite a likable chap; but you aren’t the 
type, you see, of the man of destiny — the lean, 
Mephistophelic type that turns a woman’s head 
like a glass of champagne, that takes her by 
storm, that makes her say : ‘Base deceiver, come 
to my arms !’ ” 

“And you are that type?” 

“Of course.” 

“You are a genius, Lionello,” I said sadly. 

“I know it. You haven’t even to your credit 
any of those exploits that fascinate women : such 
as, a crime of passion, an aesthetic scandal; you 
were never caught in a raid, you’ve never taken 
any sort of a prize; you don’t even possess any 
of those physical anomalies that make a man al- 


46 


WANTED— A WIFE 


luring. — For example, that fellow who sells pa- 
pers on the Corso, who is a dwarf; all the co- 
cotter pet him, and the house maids quarrel over 
him. What is worse, you possess the most seri- 
ous of all defects for obtaining unconditional 
surrenders.” 

“And that is?” 

“My friend, pretty women love generous 
men !” 

“Well, at least, I am generous/ 

“You may think you are: but you calculate, 
you stop to consider. Do you suppose that a 
pretty woman who would steal the stars out of 
Heaven to make herself prettier, could love you 
— a man who calculates? They are capable of 
surrendering their all ; but only to the man who 
proves himself capable of surrendering his all, 
not merely his wealth, but life and honor. 
But you, who cling so tenaciously to life, you 
who could not sleep at night if you had lost a 
few thousand at baccarat , you who keep a well- 
balanced ledger of giving and receiving, you who 
live by a scale of exchange rates — no, I couldn’t 
let you have a single one of the heroines of my 
novels.” 

“You crush me, Lionello. But I fear that you 
have formed a very unfair estimate of me; you 
think that I am avaricious!” 

“A bit close-fisted.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


47 


“No, Lionello, I told you I was tempted to 
make you my sole heir. But you see, the fact 
is that I was born as I am, orderly, methodical, 
far-sighted. And how am I to blame if money 
insists upon rolling into the pockets of method- 
ical, orderly, far-sighted men? It is all very 
fine you know, to read in your novels of the mad, 
fantastic lives of your spendthrift heroines; I 
realize that they are capable of giving great 
satisfaction. They even perturb my own senses. 
I should find them, no doubt, a pleasant experi- 
ence. But then I cast up the balance, and be- 
come aware of the debit side. To me, squander- 
ing money would be one form of suicide. You 
see that Ginetto Sconer is sincere. Don’t you 
think so, Lionello?” 

But a couple of days after this conversation 
Lionello precipitated himself like a projectile 
into my office. 

“Sconer,” he said, “an exceptional chance, 
a most extraordinary chance, the very thing in 
every way for you !” 

I thought that he was talking of some busi- 
ness matter, because at that hour of the day (it 
was about three o’clock in the afternoon!) I 
am absorbed in business. But, no! He was 
talking of marriage. I was obliged to ring off — 
so to speak — from my brain’s central, before I 


48 


WANTED— A WIFE 


could establish connection with Lionello. He 
became impatient; but I begged him to make 
himself at home. 

“Sconer,” Lionello began once more, “do you 
know who is the most beautiful woman in the 
world? Please take notice that the question 
has been settled by popular edict! It is Nicol- 
etta, better known under her stage name of Frau- 
lein Violetta, because it was in Vienna that she 
scored her first big triumphs.” 

In response to Lionello, I said : “I have never 
seen Fraulein Violetta in the flesh ; I have only 
seen her in the movies, and the chief impression 
that haggard face of hers left on me was that 
of a woman suffering from chronic seasickness.” 

“How bourgeois you always are in your ex- 
pressions,” said Lionello scornfully. “Fraulein 
Violetta sacrifices her beauty to the canons of 
her art!” Then he resumed: “Do you know 
Fraulein Violetta’s history? No? Then I will 
tell it to you. Fraulein Violetta is the product 
of the lyric stage : she comes from the fountain 
source of Viennese operetta. Slender limbs, ta- 
pering waist, opaline complexion, delicate fea- 
tures, calm temperament, but inclined to tease 
and banter. But her black hair, thick and coarse 
as the tail of a battle-horse, bears testimony to 
the psychic energy that is hidden beneath that 
apparent delicacy. Speaking artistically, she is 


WANTED— A WIFE 


49 


an exceptional creature, as we writers say. She 
is one of the most exuberant temperaments that 
have ever thrilled the soul of a vast crowd, in the 
roles of joyous or tragic heroines drawn from 
her whole vast repertory . . . ” 

“Hold on, hold on, Lionello!” (It sounded 
like a paragraph out of one of his novels. ) 

“Her voice was flawless, “he continued, “cap- 
able of every known inflection ! Well, when she 
was returning from a tour in America, where 
she had excited the greatest admiration and con- 
solidated her fame, all of a sudden . . .” 

“She was blown up by a German submarine?” 

“Worse than that, my dear friend. She lost 
her voice. So, she became a moving picture star. 
She studied the great silent art, and thanks to 
that perseverance which drives irresistibly 
towards the goal of glory, thanks to an iron will 
and to a clear and uncompromising recognition 
of artistic necessities, she soared on eagle 
wings toward the lofty heights of tragedy. Do 
you know, Sconer, how Nicoletta has been de- 
fined by a great French writer? Tonies les 
femmes dans line femme, all women embodied in 
one. Do you know how the poet Flebis has de- 
fined her? ‘The universe confined in a Chin- 
chilla cloak/ because at that time we were in the 
midst of winter. She is the dynamic woman par 
excellence ! In her are summed up all the count- 


50 


WANTED— A WIFE 


less types of femininity, Thais and Salome, Nana 
and Juliet; she reincarnates all these gifted 
creatures, vibrating with all the manifold as- 
pects of love, of hatred, of passion and jealousy ; 
she is feline and ethereal, submissive and tem- 
pestuous . . . ” 

“Lionello, you are starting out on another of 
your marvelous paragraphs!” 

“Do you know how much Nicoletta, that is 
Fraulein Violetta, earns? More than all the 
poets of Italy, including Dante.” 

“That I can well believe,” said I. 

“Yes, because, you see, Fraulein Violetta hides 
beneath an apparent anarchy a business genius 
of the first quality, as I can prove to you by the 
fact that she has been able to maintain her 
leadership in the face of an enormous compe- 
tition. Now I must tell you the legend that is 
circulated regarding her; a legend that savors 
of absurdity, but is nevertheless true. Tell me, 
Sconer, have you never seen Fraulein Violetta 
agonizing in an ecstasy of the senses? Have you 
never seen Passion, interpreted by Fraulein 
Violetta? Well, Fraulein Violetta is a Vestal 
Virgin !” 

“You mean . . .” 

“I mean one of those ladies of the classic 
period who, if they were false to their vows, 
incurred the penalty of being buried alive.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


51 


“A Vestal Virgin ?” 

“Precisely. Think of it, Sconer, that woman 
who is responsible for the moral downfall of 
various generations of young men, is a Vestal 
Virgin; that is, she is supposed to be, which 
amounts to the same thing. ‘Are you not 
ashamed, Fraulein Violetta/' we asked her, ‘of 
this legend that is current about you?’ And the 
poet Flebis, who adheres to the traditional forms 
of his art, demanded, ‘So you still cling to 
maidenhood? Your heart still wears a coat-of- 
mail?’ Fancy, Sconer, a woman so yielding in 
appearance, and in reality as armor-plated as a 
Dreadnought! We went so far as to tell her 
it was just an advertising trick. ‘That’s as it 
may be,’ she replied. ‘It is a form of originality 
that does you injustice, Fraulein Violetta’ — 
‘You must have the insensibility of stone.’ ‘Do 
you think so?’ she returned, with an ambiguous 
smile. But she confided to me, as a brother 
artist, that she was afraid of spoiling her figure. 
Besides, it was a great protection. As a Vestal 
Virgin it was easy to keep all men at arms’ 
length. You have no idea what a terrible posi- 
tion she is in ! She receives as many letters as 
a reigning sovereign — many of them from men 
who are evidently quite mad about her. That 
brings me, Sconer, to. something more astound- 
ing than the legend: Fraulein Violetta has re- 


52 


WANTED— A WIFE 


cently announced her intention of marrying! 
The announcement gave us all a great shock. At 
once a full half dozen took the plunge — noble- 
men, bankers, millionaires. Rejected, every one 
of them! Then we artists and poets followed 
suit. With a woman like Fraulein Violetta 
one can afford to stretch a point. The archi- 
tect, Santamaria, went so far as to promise to 
build her a skyscraper in Assyrio-Babylonese 
style as a landing-place for her flying machine. 
We too were rejected, very graciously, all the 
same rejected. ‘Poets, artists, men of genius 
as a class/ she said, ‘are my very good friends — 
but my ideal for a husband is quite different/ 
She nearly made an exception for the sake of 
the poet Flebis, but solely for humanitarian 
reasons — he is consumptive. ‘So long as you 
are bound to die any way, dear Flebis/ she told 
him, ‘I might as well shorten your painful ex- 
istence, and let you draw your last expiring 
breath on my breast. You would be inspired to 
compose your finest lyric !’ ” 

“Is she as brutal as that?” 

“Brutality is her specialty. But now, my 
friend, there is still a third thing more astound- 
ing than the Vestal Virgin legend, more as- 
tounding than her intention to marry: namely, 
that Fraulein Violetta’s ideal of a husband is 
yourself !” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


53 


“Me?” 

“Yes, you. Violetta has vowed that she will 
marry no one but a thorough-going business 
man. ‘A mere business man?’ we all exclaimed. 
Wes, a mere business man/ Fraulein Violetta 
retorted, ‘but orderly, well-balanced, and at the 
same time physically good looking and capable 
of giving me many children.’ You meet the re- 
quirements, don’t you, Sconer? ‘Incredible!’ 
we all cried in protest. ‘You are proposing 
said I, ‘to revive the old-fashioned, middle-class 
Christian family! You want to raise a lot of 
brats!’ ‘Exactly!’ retorted Fraulein Violetta. 
‘But, my dear girl,’ said I ‘that is nothing but 
snobbishness of a new sort !’ And then I fairly 
shouted, ‘Nicoletta, if you have really made up 
your mind, I know the very man you want.’ 
I had thought of you, Sconer. I rose earlier 
than usual to-day and, as you see, came straight 
to your office.” 

I was still utterly bewildered. 

“Think,” said Lionello, “think of the glory 
added to your name.” 

“I am not a writer,” I replied, “I don’t go in 
for glory.” 

“Then think of the advantage to your firm. 
You can at once advertise some new perfume or 
soap called Fraulein Violetta, and it will make 
you famous.” 


54 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“That’s true!” 

“And then don’t forget that Violetta is rich, 
very rich.” 

“Yes, but who has supplied her with all this 
wealth?” 

“Certainly not you, base, avaricious soul; but 
someone capable of worshiping at the shrine of 
divine beauty. Does anything exist nobler than 
divine beauty? No! Is there any greater pleas- 
ure than that to be derived from a beautiful 
woman? No! Well then, a beautiful woman 
is never sufficiently repaid.” 

“Thaf's what you say !” 

“That’s what Fraulein Violetta says. You 
see, she has started a propaganda based on this 
thesis: that it is time to put an end to the 
unworthy sterility of mere beauty! It is the 
same way with genius among us authors: it 
bears no fruit ! Whoever wants it must pay for 
it! So it is with beauty! Beauty constitutes 
woman’s genius! Whoever wants it, must pay 
for it!” 

“That’s what you say.” 

“That’s what Fraulein Violetta says. But, 
do you know, even morally she is an extraordi- 
nary woman! The ladies of the aristocracy, 
the women of the wealthy middle-class, permit 
themselves to enter into cruel competition with 
the honest working girls of the proletariat, and 


WANTED— A WIFE 


55 


they throw divine beauty into the bargain free 
of charge.” 

“But who talks like that?” 

“She. Fraulein Violetta. I tell you she 
is the woman of genius! To-day she is the most 
beautiful woman in the world. That is the pop- 
ular verdict, and you can imagine how rich Fraii- 
lein Violetta must be.” 

“In that case what has become of her vows?” 

“Base soul of a tradesman!” exclaimed Lion- 
ello. “Can’t you ever forget that a contract 
must have a consideration? But don’t you see 
that when Fraulein Violetta exposes her divine 
beauty on the stage, when she lavishes her price- 
less smile upon the crowd, she has amply paid? 
Go ahead and advertise your little flask of 
Fraulein Violetta toilet water, and see what an 
astounding success you will achieve. And you 
will have Fraulein Violetta herself thrown into 
the bargain! Come! I will present you to 
Fraulein Violetta.” 

“In the flesh?” 

“Of course.” 

I asked for time to think it over, and went 
to consult the well known wisdom of Dr. Per- 
tusius. 

How wonderful Lionello is ! He talks of 
women as calmly as a horse dealer talks of 
fillies. And how artistic ! When he says 


56 


WAITED— A WIFE 


“beauty,” be makes the word sound very, very 
long, and every hair on his head quivers. I 
can’t do that. 


CHAPTER V 


THE REQUISITES FOR A HYGIENIC WIFE 

D R. PERTUSIUS is that talented man, 
discovered by me, who wrote for our firm 
under my direction, that masterpiece — our ad- 
vertising booklet — “How to Prolong My Life.” 
But this talent must surely have been thrown 
out of balance by some unseen influence, for when 
a man is still poor on reaching the age of gray 
hair, it is an open question whether or not he 
possesses real talent. 

Wealthy patients are not acquainted with the 
ninety steps that lead up to Dr. Pertusius’ habi- 
tation, and my limousine must have been the 
first automobile that ever stopped before his 
door. 

The doctor’s apartment is of such depressing 
simplicity as to destroy the last lingering re- 
spect for the virtue of modesty. There is a dif- 
fused odor of fried garlic; and the woman who 
comes to open the door, uniformed in an ample 
housekeeper’s apron, is in perfect harmony with 
the apartment and with the odor of fried garlic. 
I took her for the maid. But I made a bad 
57 


58 


WANTED— A WIFE 


break, for she proved to be the Doctor’s wife — 
“my highly esteemed consort,” The doctor is 
a man with his head in habitual disorder. His 
hair trespasses upon the domain of his beard; 
his moustache forms two stalactites from his 
upper lip; his bristling eyebrows defy the ef- 
forts of brillantine. A thoroughly lawless 
head. And to think that it was that head which 
evolved the chapter on “The Hygiene of the 
Head!” 

This morning Dr. Pertusius’ head was even 
more lawless than usual, because he was occu- 
pied with a book which told of a star that is 
no longer there, although, as he explained, we 
still perceive its light because it is so immeas- 
urably far off ! “Human figures are inadequate 
to express the distance. Do you not feel, Cav- 
aliere,” he asked me, “do you not feel your 
reason tottering?” 

“Not over such things, but if it affects you 
that way, let’s come down from the stars. I 
called to talk over a fine business proposition. 
You remember that you compiled for our firm 
the little treatise “How to Prolong Life?” 
Well, I want to suggest that you should write 
another one on an even more agreeable theme, 
“The Requisites of a Perfect Wife.” For this 
second pamphlet, instead of 200 lire, we would 


WANTED— A WIFE 


59 


be willing to pay you as much as 250 lire. Nat- 
urally it must be a book with a scientific basis, 
stimulating, written with verve, as you know 
how to write it; but over certain matters, glis- 
sons n’appuyons pas! Our book must be eligible 
for a place on any drawing-room table.” 

“But marriage is passing through a Crisis, 
didn’t you know that, Cavaliere?” he asked. 

“It is precisely because it is passing through 
a crisis that we are going to write a vade mecurn 
of modern marrage — a rapid, practical, rational 
vade mecum, excluding all the old-time tragedy. 
Through a crisis? But my dear fellow, a pretty 
little wife who would dedicate her whole self 
to her husband’s happiness, is one of those in- 
stitutions that will always work well with 
or without a crisis.” 

“So you must have her beautiful besides, Cav- 
aliere? Ah, beauty, beauty,” he exclaimed sud- 
denly, “beauty is a terrible thing!” The doc- 
tor seemed to bear a grudge against beauty. 

“Beauty is divine,” I corrected him, quoting 
Lionello. 

“Beauty is terrible, terrible,” he repeated. 
“And yet, what is it? What is beauty? Al- 
ways the same story: A monkey-face with a 
little chin, a little nose, a mouth orifice, a little 
smile, two pupils to right and left of the nose; 


60 


WANTED— A WIFE 


the whole supported on a mannequin of adipose 
tissue, against a background of luxuriant hair. 
One of God’s mysteries!” 

Frankly, I did not share this opinion. He 
talks of women as though they were a standard- 
ized manufacture, while on the contrary, every 
woman is a separate piece of craftsmanship. 

“Let us leave God’s mysteries alone,” said I, 
“or else it will be like a star; we shall never 
see the end of it.” 

“How terribly deceptive nature is!” con- 
tinued Dr. Pertusius. “And yet nature has been 
almost beneficent in her deceits. What was the 
beauty of Eve at the time of the creation? 
Something almost harmless. And so was 
Adam, almost harmless. In fact, what would 
Adam’s utmost violence amount to while 
it was limited to his simple, natural energies? A 
peaceful, gymnastic exercise. Instead of that, 
Adam invented the sharpened flint, the hatchet, 
the sword, and later the gattling gun and 
poison-gas. Woman, I admit, has not created 
any of these things, any more than she created 
the pyramids and the electric motor. Such 
things were created by man. But woman has 
created woman! She has perfected to an ir- 
resistible degree the natural weapon of her 
beauty. Is this the work of God or of Satan? 
That is a mystery! 


WANTED— A WIFE 


61 


“At what point in time after Eve did woman’s 
advancement begin? From time immemorial! 
When Judith prepared to go to the tent of 
Holofernes to seduce him and then cut off his 
head, what did she do first of all? She bathed 
her body, she anointed herself with precious 
ointments, she parted the hair of her head and 
placed upon it a mitre — which was the hat of 
those days — she arrayed herself in her finest 
raiment, put sandals on her feet, decked her- 
self with bracelets, ear-rings and rings, and ap- 
peared in all her incomparable charm. What 
did the maidens do to find favor with King 
Ahasuerus? They spent six months whitening 
their skin with aromatics and precious oint- 
ments.^ 

“That is a very interesting detail!” 

“And among all those maidens, why did 
Esther find special favor with King Ahasuerus? 
Because she was the most beautiful ! The grim 
Ahasuerus had condemned to death Mordecai, 
the friend of Esther. But Esther presented 
herself before the King, and the King was so 
dazzled by her beauty that he said, ‘What is thy 
request? It shall be even given thee to the half 
of the kingdom/ And why did Samson, that 
stupid fool of a Samson, reveal to Delilah the 
secret of his great strength? Because Delilah 
made him sleep upon her knees, and pillowed 


62 


WANTED— A WIFE 


his head upon her breast, et in sinu eius reclin - 
are caput. And who was Delilah? A harlot 
of those times.” 

“Let ns say, a demi-mondaine! But, my dear 
man, you don’t suppose that I can bring myself 
to present my customers to a homely wife — 
‘guardian of public morals,’ so to speak?” 

“We must draw a distinction,” said he, “be- 
tween one kind of beauty and another.” 

“All right, let us draw the distinction.” 

He bowed his head. Presently he raised it 
again and inquired: 

“What do you know about mushrooms?” 

“They are very nice broiled,” said I. 

“But you must know, Cavaliere, that among 
the edible mushrooms there grows a fungus called 
the Amanita muscaria, which contains a terrible 
poison that produces dizziness, hallucinations, 
incoherence of ideas, stupor and finally death. 
For what mysterious reason do the dreadful 
Amanita muscaria and the even more dreaded 
Amanita phalloides — note the name ! — grow 
among honest mushrooms? For what mysteri- 
ous reason does the deadly fungus appear more 
iridescent and more attractive than other kinds 
of fungus? There is an enigma that has not 
yet been solved.” 

“Let us leave it unsolved,” said I. 

“Look here.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


63 


He opened a drawer and took out a woman’s 
portrait. “Look at this!” 

“Very pretty,” said I. 

It was a charming face, triangular, like a 
tender heart, gracefully surmounting the curve 
of a perfect shoulder; mouth like a lily, eyes 
amazingly wide open. 

“I like her very much,” I repeated. 

“You mustn’t,” said the doctor. “As long as 
she lived she was one of the most deadly speci- 
mens of the species!” 

“Is she dead? Oh, the poor girl?” 

“Dead a hundred years. She was Lady Ham- 
ilton, otherwise called Emma Lyon.” 

“Well, if she is dead she is not dangerous.” 

“Dangerous even though she is dead! An 
Amanita phalloides of the most terrible sort. 
Do you see, Cavaliere, that ambiguous smile 
that looks so angelic? That woman produced 
dizziness and incoherence in many distinguished 
men; and when she did not destroy their lives, 
she destroyed their honor.” 

“Doctor, this is a serious matter; but, forgive 
me for saying so, you remind me of a ‘barker* 
at a wild beast show : ‘Here is the terrible siren 
of the North Sea that devours corpses alive!* 
Come, I say! Isn’t it perhaps a' question of 
dangerous age with you too?” 

The doctor looked at me with malignant eyes. 


64 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“And now look at this,” lie said, producing 
another portrait. 

“What a frightful face!” 

It was not a woman’s face, but a man’s and 
so ugly that I wouldn’t have cared to meet him 
in the flesh at night. 

“Ah, even you recognize him,” said the doctor, 
with much satisfaction. “You have before you 
the ‘congenital delinquent,’ the ‘epileptiform 
man!’ Do you note the degenerate stigmata? 
Facial assymetry through the abnormal devel- 
opment of the skull, salient lower jaw . . .” 

“He looks,” said I, “as though he would like 
to eat people alive.” 

“In bygone times, he actually did eat them 
raw. Profound canine cleft in the upper jaw, 
excessive protuberance of the supraciliary 
arches, obliquity of the eye socket. And now, 
look at the ear, with its adherent lobe, absence 
of helix, presence of Darwin’s tubercle, such as. 
fauns were supposed to have . . .” 

Slightly alarmed, I felt of my own ear, and 
inquired, “Doctor, have I any of these things?” 

“No, you are perfectly normal.” 

“That’s what I thought. But, excuse me, 
what is the purpose of this lecture on delin- 
quents, with all these ugly words?” 

“Listen,” said the doctor triumphantly, “In 
the delinquent woman we have the opposite 


WANTED — A WIFE 


65 


phenomenon to that of man. The delinquent 
man bares written on his face, ‘I am a delin- 
quents In woman, nothing of the sort! In- 
deed, in the majority of cases the delinquency 
of woman is hidden behind that mask of fatal 
beauty against which I just warned you: a 
beauty frequently enhanced by an intellectual 
brilliance that closely 'counterfeits real intel- 
ligence. Such women may be either mystics or 
sensualists: but always heartless, always de- 
ceitful! No common, vulgar lying, mark you; 
but what we doctors call pathological pseu- 
dology: that is, such unconscious lying that it 
sounds like sincerity. This is the type of 
women famous in the annals of hysterics and 
of passions, the women who exerted a poison- 
ous influence upon the nervous centers of his- 
tory, such as Cleopatra . . .” 

“I have heard of her.” 

“ . . . such as Semiramis, such as the Em- 
press Catherine of Russia, such as Emma Lyon 
whom we have before us, such as certain queens 
of the foot-lights, and so forth and so on. Their 
characteristic is destruction. Wherever they 
pass, they blast and burn.” 

“Isn’t it possible, Doctor, that you exagger- 
ate?” 

“No, I don’t exaggerate. They are female 
Attilas, with angelic faces, while the male At- 


66 


WANTED— A WIFE 


tilas have the faces of beasts of prey. Gener- 
ally these women blast themselves. But if they 
last out, all of a sudden you will see them go 
to pieces, and the mantle of deceptive beauty 
falls. In its place appears either shapeless cor- 
pulance or repulsive leanness; a harsh voice, an 
irrepressible cynicism in place of intellectual- 
ity. And note further this type rarely bears 
children; and we doctors have learned that ma- 
ternity alone gives intelligence to women. And 
yet the poets exalt these creatures, flagellum 
Dei!” 

“I have no use for poets either,” said I. 
“But you will admit that an advertising booklet 
with such things in it won’t appeal to the 
ladies.” 

“What do I care for your advertising pam- 
phlet or your ladies?” exclaimed Dr. Pertusius. 
“But I go a great deal further than that.” 

“I should think that would be difficult.” 

Hereupon the doctor proceeded as follows: 

“All the women to-day want to make them- 
selves beautiful. ...” 

“That is for our benefit, Doctor!” I replied. 

“I am not so sure, not so sure. ...” He 
reflected a while, and then said : “It seems to 
me to-day that all the women are striving, as 
an ideal, to approach the type of delinquent 
woman. Was this ordained by man, to add a 


WANTED— A WIFE 


67 


sharper tang to the pleasure women give? Or 
was it woman who perversely chose to hasten 
man’s downfall? I don’t know, I don’t know. 
But so it is. Where nowadays do we ever see 
the flush of modesty that formerly overspread 
the cheeks of maidenhood?” 

“Superseded by our Ravissante face powder, 
carnation pink, at seven lire the box.” 

“Ah, you are joking! Well, Cavaliere, I will 
turn your own words against you. Consider 
the present fashions, they are extremely signif- 
icant. People think that fashions are of small 
importance, something that concerns only the 
tailors and dressmakers. On the contrary, they 
are a deeply philosophic problem.” 

“Bravo, Doctor! That’s something to put in 
our book.” 

“Don’t you see in the streets certain fashion- 
ably dressed women who look as though they 
had come from the hands of an upholsterer?” 

“Oh, Doctor! We can’t put that in! Glis- 
sons!” 

“And certain others wearing strange black 
mantles, that make them resemble those repul- 
sive night moths called Atropusf And cer- 
tain others who drag around their weight of 
flesh and fine feathers, looking like the Battal- 
ion of Death — from excesses? And certain be- 
wildered expressions of the face that make you 


68 


WANTED— A WIFE 


wonder if they are brooding over the first symp- 
toms of a bad cold? And what has become of 
adolescence? One sees half-developed young 
girls contorting and ‘shimmying* like Her- 
maphrodites !” 

I begged him to explain those last ugly words. 
He did so. 

“How disgusting !” said I. 

“It’s they who are disgusting, not I. Don’t 
call it disgusting; call it a sign of the times. 
Virginity that was once a question of family 
honor means nothing now.” (Excepting for 
Fraulein Violetta. But I have decided not to 
marry her.) 

“Social marasmus is approaching, not only 
with the iron-shod foot of the proletariat, but 
also with the beaded silk slipper of the pretty 
woman.” 

“Don’t let' us get side-tracked on politics, Doc- 
tor, it isn’t hygienic.” 

“Do you think I meddle in politics? No, I 
merely look on from the window. A pretty 
figure I would cut, helping police* modern so- 
ciety! I observe the phenomenon with a scien- 
tist’s objectivity. Have you never watched the 
women of the fashionable world, in hotel parlors, 
at theaters and restaurants? They pass from 
the depths of depression to the heights of rapture. 
Then swish , swish! They are polishing their 


WANTED— A WIFE 


69 


finger-nails. And the next moment they throw 
themselves back in their chairs in a new ecstasy. 
They sigh, they laugh wildly, they ‘vamp’ with 
the deadly eyes of Medusa. Then they rise with 
a serpentine quiver and drag their limbs through 
the steps of the latest fashionable dance, short 
petticoats and gowns clinging tight to their 
limbs. Those are your present-day models. 
What sort of wives and mothers could you make 
of them?” 

“From your point of view,” said I, “you are 
as much an artist as my friend Lionello. But 
don’t let’s exaggerate! If I understand you, a 
wife whcr would at once satisfy the requirements 
of aesthetics and hygiene is an impossibility?” 

“I don’t say that. I only say that it would 
take a long hunt.” 

“A hunt for what?” 

“For another, and less obvious kind of beauty, 
a tender beauty robed in purity. And you must 
pay special heed to the eyes, above all else! 
The eye is the only unguarded point at which 
you can approach the fortress of the brain. The 
eyes of the type of woman I mean must be 
absolutely limpid, liquid, unafraid; you must 
be able to perceive in their depths something 
which the woman herself cannot tell you : 
namely, moral purity as distinct from natural 
purity. The kind of eyes that are stealthy, like 


70 


WANTED— A WIFE 


snakes, alternately hidden and then darting 
swift, quivering glances, are to be shunned. 
But a woman’s eyes not only may, but should, 
be overclouded with a tender veil of tears, pro- 
vided she has just causer. As for smiles and 
laughter. . . .” 

“Then young women should laugh?” 

“Of course. Healthful, pleasing, ringing 
laughter — but that, too, only for good cause! 
The strained, set lips, the stereotyped smirk 
are dangerous symptoms. Then as to sing- 
ing . . 

“That’s fine, Doctor, I love music.” 

“And I hate music,” exclaimed Dr. Pertusius. 
“Because it is the most enervating art.” 

“I’ll take your word for that. But how in 
the world is the young lady to sing without 
music?” 

“Without music and without a piano! Just 
from sheer light-heartedness, as the birds sing 
when they wake up in the morning. And no 
novel reading, mind you! The least harm that 
could do would be to give her the absorbed, 
dreamy air of those wretched women who know 
nothing about housework.” 

“Any further data?” 

Pertusius replied : “Avoid pallid complex- 
ions, moonlight, tea-rose, pale-cream. Leave 
such complexions to poets, novelists and the rest 


WANTED— A WIFE 


71 


of the writing fraternity. It is true that Ovid 
in his ‘Art of Love’ has laid down the precept, 
pallat omnis amans, ‘All lovers should be pale/ 
but he, too, is stupid and meretricious! Be- 
neath the pale-cream of the poets lurks scrofula 
and pus. Nor is the faint rose flush any better. 
‘Oh, violet ! oh, lily !’ sigh the poets. Say 
rather, ‘Koch’s bacillus.’ ” 

“Then what complexion should she have?” 

“Nigra sum sed formosa !” 

“Sorry, but I don’t understand.” 

“That means a brunette complexion, full of 
nature’s own strength.” 

“And what else?” 

“Her teeth! Strong teeth, w T ell entrenched 
in the gums : white, of course, but not transpar- 
ent, not mother-of-pearl, not full of gold and 
platinum fillings! And then find out at what 
time the young lady rises in the morning. And 
how are her eyes? Are they naturally clear? 
Is she bright or dull in the morning? What 
time, does she go to bed at night? Is she brave? 
What is the mother like? Find out about the 
mother and the father, too. Shall we be less 
careful than a cattle dealer who looks at the 
mother cow before he buys the calf? Is she ac- 
tive? There are some girls whom men find 
charming because of their indolence. ‘As in- 
dolent as a Creole,’ sing the poets; ‘Stretched 


72 


WANTED— A WIFE 


upon a divan like an odalisque.’ The idiots! 
She must be active, nimble, able to wait on her- 
self, and not forever have a maid at her elbow. 
And as for temperament, better too cold than too 
ardent. I almost forgot the most important 
thing of all, has she good digestion?” 

“How unpoetic, Doctor,” said I. 

“It is the opposite that is unpoetic,” he 
retorted, “when a young lady tells you, ‘I have 
a headache, I feel depressed/ then it is she who 
is unpoetic. Oh! And is she neat? Let me ex- 
plain: Neat of course but within limits: A 
young woman who gives too much attention to 
her toilet makes me think of certain hotel cooks 
who wash the venison over and over because it 
is too gamey. And she must have well kept 
nails.” 

“I agree to that,” said I. 

“Yes, but she mustn’t spend the entire day 
trimming and polishing them. Another thing: 
What kind of stockings does she wear? Ah, 
those perfidious silk stockings! Ah, those high- 
heeled slippers and the hysterical gait that goes 
with them! Beautiful broad, flat heeled shoes! 
They are a guarantee that when the young 
woman goes to bed at night she will not inflict on 
you the sight of deformed feet. Women ought to 
be born into the world like Nuremburg dolls, 
or else go to bed with their stockings on — as 


WANTED — A WIFE 


73 


one class of them do. And lastly, do not seek 
a wife for carnal pleasure ! Tobias, in the 
Bible, when he married Sarah, said: ‘I take 
this maiden for my wife, not for the pleasure 
of the senses, but for the sake of offspring/ 
And the Lord blessed Tobias and Sarah, and 
they lived happily together. One thing more 
The young lady must not lack perfume.” 

“That's another thing that suits me.” 

“Let me explain: perfume without perfum- 
ery. You know there is a fine saying in Latin, 
mulier bene olet que nil olet.” 

“Which means?” 

“ Woman is the best perfumed when she has 
no perfume,' that is, none but her natural fra- 
grance.” 

“Doctor,” said I, “it seems to me that we are 
throwing stones at our own dove-cote.” 

“Whatever do you mean by that?” 

“I mean that an advertising pamphlet, writ- 
ten in the foregoing terms would be a disaster 
for our house. Our house, of which I have the 
honor of being director, makes a specialty of 
digestive tablets, pomades, complexion powders, 
hair dyes, powder for polishing the nails and 
perfume which, as we proclaim in our advertise- 
ments, add a new fascination to personal charm. 
A pamphlet in the terms you suggest is con- 
trary to our interests; not to mention that the 


74 


WANTED— A WIFE 


sort of young woman you describe is an article 
that does not exist in modern business. The 
true woman starts from her silk stockings up !” 

That is how we parted. The pamphlet will 
not be written. 


CHAPTER VI 


A SIXTEENTH CENTURY ARCHER 

i 1 10 all appearances Ginetto Sconer’s mar- 
X. riage is another thing that is never going 
to be.” 

I returned home and and there in the parlor 
I found Maioli. He is an extraordinary man. 
I have known him since the days when my ter- 
ritory covered the town of P . He says that 

he was a cavalry officer at the time of the battle 
of Custoza, but he has remained unchanged ever 
since : a rather gaunt figure, short, rapid strides, 
white hair, white necktie and a flower in his but- 
ton hole. His complexion is as fresh and rosy 
as that of a baby. After he has spoken he 
always gives a contented little laugh. He cer- 
tainly doesn’t do it to show his teeth, because 
they are false. He must laugh for hygienic 
reasons. When anything pleases him he puckers 
up his lips as if to whistle, and sucks in his 
breath. When, on the contrary, something dis- 
pleases him, he does the opposite, and blows out ; 
and when he is deeply moved, he weeps; these 
actions also must all be measures of hygiene. 

75 


76 


WANTED — A WIFE 


“If you will only tell me/’ I have often said 
to him, “what you have done to perserve your- 
self so wonderfully since the time of the battle 
of Custoza, I will put you in all my advertise- 
ments as a living example of the efficacy of my 
Vitaline y and give you ten thousand lire be- 
sides.” 

He must also have a secret method for preserv- 
ing clothes. Every little while I see him reap- 
pear in certain suits that I recognize from years 
ago. “You are always so well dressed,” I tell 
him. “That is partly due to my good figure,” 
he answered, “and partly to the Countess, my 
wife.” 

When he mentions the Countess , his wife, he 
always becomes much moved. 

Maioli is a provincial ; he lives in the town of 

p w ith the Countess, his wfife, “who is a 

treasure in the home” ; his canaries, which are ex- 
tremely intelligent; his flowers which are ex- 
traordinarily beautiful ; and his antiques, among 
which the Countess, his wife, must be included. 
Since Maioli is well versed in old paintings, old 
hangings, old rubbish, and since there is a whole 

bunch of bankrupt noble families in P , he 

puts through enough good deals to keep him 
going. 

When not at home, Maioli is a guest “in the 
castle of his good friend Count A.,” or in “the 


WANTED— A WIFE 


77 


villa of his other good friend Marquis B.” He 
must be an enjoyable guest, because at the end 
of dinner he can sing old-fashioned songs, such 
as “The Lively Theresa he knows a dozen an- 
cient bons mots ; and recalls the high-life scan- 
dals of by-gone days. 

He had come to see me to ask if I would trade 
him a certain automobile, in exchange for a 
painting by Pinturicchio. “It would add no- 
bility,” said he, “to this apartment of yours.” 
I thanked him but declined the offer. 

“That is because you don’t appreciate Pintu- 
ricchio.” 

“Very possibly, but I am not selling.” 

“Well, of course, with an apartment like this, 
you couldn’t be expected to appreciate Pintu- 
ricchio.” 

“What do you mean by that? What’s the 
matter with my apartment? Does it smell 
bad?” For I noticed that he had wrinkled up 
his nose as if he perceived a bad odor. 

“At least, my good friend, remove that door 
mat with its inscription, ‘Please Wipe Your 
Shoes.’ Yes, it’s a fine apartment : marble stair- 
way, parquette floors, steam heat — but there is 
an indefinable lack, an indefinable lack of . . . 
I would wager that some house-furnishing estab- 
lishment fitted out this apartment for you on 
contract.” 


78 


WANTED — A WIFE 


“What do you mean by your ‘indefinable lack?’ 
It has everything !” 

“Yes, but too much new stuff, too much gold, 
too much stucco. The eye has no chance to 
rest. Forgive me, my good friend, but your 
wall ornaments look as though they had come 
from a rummage sale. Did you yourself pick 
out this apartment ?” 

“I own it!” 

“The deuce, you say ! Did you build it your- 
self?” 

“I bought it at a bargain. It formerly be- 
longed to the Counts of Tornamali, but now it 
belongs to me.” 

He blew out his breath. 

“What’s the matter now, my dear Count?” 
(I call him Count in compliment to the Coun- 
tess, his wife; it pleases him, and it doesn’t 
hurt me.) 

“The trouble is that the old houses are dis- 
appearing. . . 

“And new ones are replacing them,” I an- 
swered. 

“And the garden also is yours?” 

“Naturally.” 

“Yes, that is how it is. You would be quite 
capable of installing an up-to-date butler, is- 
suing invitations for a garden party, discussing 
art, indulging in philanthropy. ...” 


WANTED — A WIFE 79 

“I don’t find anything extraordinary in all 
that.” 

He gazed around him, then he gazed at me, 
and at last said, “The fact is, my dear friend, that 
there is many a high-born young woman whom 
you might make very happy.” 

(That is what they all say. It pleased me so 
much that I immediately invited him to stay to 
luncheon. ) 

“But why, my good friend” he inquired, “why 
don’t you take a wife?” 

“That is precisely what I am looking for, but 
I can’t find one.” And I proceeded to give him 
the details of my misadventures. 

“Naturally,” he exclaimed, “naturally, my 
good friend! You are seeking a wife in your 
own money-grubbing class. You won’t find her; 
you will only find cheap imitation goods, sateens, 
mercerized cottons — not a real wife.” 

“And you are offering me crepe de Chine?” 

“Crepe de Chine nothing ! Brocade with 
golden lilies! Bare old ancien regime, still so 
fresh and beautiful after two centuries that they 
look as if made yesterday. ...” 

“May I ask, my dear Count, if this ancien 
regime you are offering me also dates back 
several centuries?” 

He shook his white mane with indulgent com- 
passion, and said: 


80 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“Forgive me, my dear friend, but you don’t 
understand, you simply can’t understand what 
ancien regime means. I could offer you — pray 
observe that I offer because I do not guarantee 
that she will accept — the true heroine, the mys- 
terious and superb woman who would give the 
ennobling touch to your apartment, and if you 
permit me to say so, to yourself.” 

“Ancien regime of which period?” I de- 
manded. 

“Pray be serious; the most beautiful woman 
in the world.” 

“I am sorry,” I replied, “but the position of 
the most beautiful woman in the world is already 
filled: Fratilein Violetta — by popular edict.” 

And I proceeded to give him details regard- 
ing the incomparable Fraulein Violetta. 

“Bah!” exclaimed Maioli and he made cer- 
tain gestures with his hand as if brushing away 
a swarm of flies. “There is your true type of 
grave-digger ; first they strip you bare, and then 
they dance a revolutionary can-can above your 
tombstone.” 

Imagine if Lionello and the other poets could 
have heard him talk like that about Fraulein 
Violetta! “But tell me,” said I, “is this young 
lady whom you are offering me also a Vestal 
like Fraulein Violetta?” 

“Stop, stop ! When jokes are made on sacred 


WANTED— A WIFE 81 

subjects, I have no more to say. Shall we call 
it off?” 

“How touchy you are! Of course not! On 
the contrary, tell me some more. I presume, 
not that it matters, that she is as penniless as 
the rest of the nobility in your neighborhood.” 

“Do you want to make even marriage a busi- 
ness affair? Money, money, money! Dia- 
monds, diamonds, diamonds! That’s all you 
think of. Why, an attic chamber in Donna 
Ghiselda’s palace is worth more than your 
whole junk-shop taken together! Authentic 
work of Bramante! I need say no more.” 

To make my peace with Maioli, I ordered up 
a bottle of champagne. “Well then, as we were 
saying : respectable competence on which to start 
married life. But will she be capable of giving 
me an heir?” 

“Two heirs, if you need them.” 

“That brings us to another matter: is she 
plump or thin? Tall or short? Blonde or 
brunette?” 

“Those are matters,” said Maioli, “which 
must be seen; they cannot be described. I will 
say only this : she is like this champagne. What 
is this excellent champagne of yours? An im- 
prisoned sunray. But the cork leaps forth, and 
lo and behold, the sunshine! The poor, dear 
girl !” 


82 


WANTED— A WIFE 


Maioli held the glass of champagne on the 
level with his eyes; and two tears trickled down 
his smooth, pink old cheeks. 

“Calm yourself, Count. But at least tell me, 
is she healthy?” 

“Healthy? She is like a young archer of the 
sixteenth century.” 

“Is she trustworthy?” 

Maioli’s eyes flashed dangerously: “I make 
allowances for you, because you have never seen 
Donna Ghiselda.” 

“I like her name. She must be at least a 
duchess,” said I, for Maioli had avoided men- 
tioning her title. 

“Contessina,” he rejoined solemnly. 

I asked where one might have a sight of this 
champagne, this sixteenth century archer, this 
Contessina. 

“You certainly don’t expect me to bring her 
here! If some Sunday, about midday you take 

a trip to P and visit the pastry shop called 

La Maddalena, on the Corso, I can present her 
to you. That is the hour when I take my ver- 
mouth, and Donna Ghiselda stops in there after 
late mass, to buy a few sweets.” 

“So the Contessina attends mass?” 

“Naturally! All of us members of the nobil- 
ity go to mass ; if for no other reason, we do so 


WANTED— A WIFE 


83 


as a dignified protest against the common rab- 
ble that no longer has any religion. Besides, 
pardon the question, but without religion what 
sort of a marriage are you proposing?” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE CONTESSINA GHISELDA 

1 GAVE the following order to my chauffeur : 

“To-morrow, Sunday morning, be on hand 
promptly at nine o’clock. We are going to 

P . Plan to reach there by half past eleven.” 

Why this decision? I do not know; but the 
idea of marrying a young Contessina has given 
me a delightful foretaste of proud dominion. I 
had never before thought much about blue blood. 
Now, I contemplate the future, after I have mar- 
ried the Contessina. Naturally, at thei start 
she does not love me. She has married me be- 
cause she is poor, she has been bought! That 
is a delicious thought, to buy a countess! She 
moves about, proud and disdainful through this 
apartment. But I am the model of self-re- 
straint and delicate consideration; 1 demand 
nothing, I merely wait ! Until one fine day, the 
little countess says to me: “Ginetto Sconer, 
you are a pearl among men, an ideal husband.” 
Exactly like the Maitre de Forges. It is 
strange, but ever since Maioli’s talk about cham- 
pagne I have been obsessed by a haunting vi- 

84 


WANTED — A WIFE 


85 


sion of a blonde. But it may have been partly the 
effect of Lionello’s novels. When that man 
tosses off his women fresh from the griddle of 
high art, they are so beautifully light and golden, 
that there is no such thing as forgetting 
them. 

Maioli lays it on too thick. There is no telling 
what his penniless provincial Contessina may 
turn out to be. All the same, I made an un- 
usually careful toilet, and put plenty of money 
in my pocket-book. Why did I do that? Be- 
cause I felt that I was on my way to buy a 
countess. If all goes well, we will buy twin 
beds, and over the head-boards we will hang 
a tapestry with an Infant Jesus, That at least 
is a luxury I can well afford. 

It was an enjoyable trip; my powerful lim- 
ousine sped through the May sunshine, entered 

P at precisely quarter to twelve, and drew 

up, under the admiring eyes of the good pro- 
vincials, in front of the pastry shop of La Mad- 
delena, specified by Maioli. 

Maioli was there himself taking his vermouth. 

“My dear, dear friend !” he greeted me, “Never 
in the world did I dream of seeing you so soon.” 

“We business men observe an almost German 
punctuality.” 

“And this is your automobile?” 

“Yes, but not the one I was to exchange for 


86 


WANTED — A WIFE 


the Pinturicchio. That one I am reserving for 
yon, if all goes well.” 

“Would you like,” said he, in a mysterious 
tone, “to walk over to the church? You have 
just time to see her kneeling in prayer. It af- 
fords an interesting point of view.” 

“I prefer,” said I, “to wait here at the pastry 
shop.” 

“In that case I will introduce you to the 
proprietor; one of the great artists of the con- 
fectionary art ; genuine butter, genuine pre- 
served fruits. In making out his checks he is 
apt to muddle his figures; the only thing he 
gets right is the sum total. But I see that 
mass is over.” 

“How do you know that, Count?” 

My question was answered by a swarm of 
young girls bursting into the pastry shop. 
Vast rustling of skirts, prodigious chattering. 
They all circle around in stiffly starched petti- 
coats; they all wear flowers; they all stand 
proudly erect in well polished little shoes, and 
toss their flaunting feathers in the air. They 
diffuse a fragrance of dainty scented garments. 
Behind come the mammas in black, saying: 
“Gently, gently, dear girls!” Little prayer- 
books are laid on the glass tops of the show 
cases; little hands, some bare, some gloved, 
stretch forth; eager eyes open widely; little 


WANTED — A WIFE 


87 


parcels of dainties take shape. They also eat 
some of them, with mamma’s permission. 
Pretty little mouths open. 

“I’ll take a chocolate eclair.” 

“What do you want, Mary, a charlotte russe?” 

“This cream puff is delicious!” 

“Oh, and fresh-baked sfogliatelle !” 

With eager chins thrust forward, they crunch 
the sfogliatelle , and the little hands brush away 
the crumbs from their frocks. 

“Good Heavens, wasn’t it wonderful?” 

“How beautifully he spoke this morning!” 

“Is it true, mamma, that he goes from here 
to Rome?” 

“Yes, darling, but be careful, you are spill- 
ing the cream puff.” 

“They are all bubbling over with enthusiasm ; 
and I am not sure whether it is on account 
of the cream puffs, the sfogliatelle or something 
quite different. So I asked Maioli: 

“What are they talking of?” 

“A visiting preacher who has been delivering 
a series of lectures in the oratory of the church, 
on the mission of women. Oh, there is still 
plenty of religion in P ” 

More women and young girls came in. Sud- 
denly I said, “There she is.” 

“You have divined rightly,” said Maioli sol- 
emnly. 


88 


WANTED— A WIFE 


A golden radiance had entered. It was the 
month of May, yet daylight was outrivaled, as 
Lionello would say. It was she! It was she! 
She wore a veil. My heart gave a jump! One 
hand raised the veil, which reached only to her 
nose. Heavens, what an aristocratic nose ! The 
other hand took a marron glace ; the mouth 
opened, the marron glace disappeared. Happy 
marron glace! 

I pressed the Count’s hand in silence. He 
was much moved. So was I! 

But all at once, all the young girls clustered 
around the Contessina, first one spoke and then 
another, and then all talked at once. 

“Yes, yes, yes, Contessina! We must have 
you as Chairman of the committee for the fare- 
well reception to the Padre. Yes, yes, yes!” 

“But there will have to be two committees,” 
said one of the young voices. 

“No! One committee only,” said another 
young voice. 

“But it would be impossible,” exclaimed the 
girl with the cream-puff, “for me to be on the 
same committee with my own dress-maker, you 
must see that!” 

I heard the Contessina reply gravely : 

“My dear girls, I am awfully sorry, but I 
must beg you to excuse me. Oh, yes, abso- 
lutely.” Then, discovering the presence of 


WANTED— A WIFE 


89 


Maioli, she added, “Pardon me!” and in an in- 
stant she had shaken herself free from all those 
young women, and made a straight line for our 
table. Her face, which a moment before had 
looked so serious, now that she had her back 
turned to the young women, changed to a swift 
grimace of derision. 

“Ouff! Thanks, dear Maioli,” she said, “for 
rescuing me from all those modest sensitive 
plants. They are still vibrating to the words 
of the preacher.” 

“Donna Ghiselda, dear Donna Ghiselda, what 
a pleasure!” said Maioli, agitating his silver 
mane from excess emotion. “I am told, how- 
ever, that he is a very powerful preacher.” 

“Why, yes, a clever and tactful little priest, 
who knows how to use pathos effectively. All 
through this month of May he has led the ma- 
trons and the modest sensitive plants shivering 
on the very brink of sin. He has the trick of 
making' the stories of Abelard and Heloise, of 
Ruth and Naomi very fascinating. At pres- 
ent those young girls are all repeating : 
< Whither thou goest , I will go; and where thou 
lodgest, I will lodge!’ They have already come 
to me to ask me to lend them a Bible. ‘That is 
forbidden, my dear girls!’ — ‘Then Abelard and 
Heloise?’ — ‘Still more forbidden!’ No more 
lending books for me! I had all the trouble 


90 


WANTED — A WIFE 


I wanted the time I lent them Madame Bovary . 
Ha, ha, ha!” 

I had naturally sprung to my feet with mili- 
tary rigidity. I confess that I was disconcerted, 
because that very gown that she wore was dis- 
concerting. It was not in accord with the 
latest demands of fashion, but neither was it 
provincial, like the dresses of those young girls. 
She was tall, much taller than those girls; and 
yet she and they were much on the same level! 

Yes, she was an archer of the sixteenth cen- 
tury ; but be it plainly understood that she was, 
alas! only too well aware that she was a female 
archer. 

How old was she? Heavens, how old? Per- 
haps twenty-five, perhaps thirty. One thing is 
sure, that even when seen close by her face 
showed no fear of the analysis of my keen glance. 

When she had finished her light “Ha, ha, ha !” 
I called to mind the metallic tinkle of my Bech- 
stein, and I said to myself, “Ginetto, keep your- 
self in hand!” 

“Donna Ghiselda,” said Maioli, “pray be 
seated.” 

“Just for one little moment, because I am 
expecting mamma.” 

“Meanwhile, permit me to present my good 
friend, Cavaliere Ginetto Sconer, who has only 
just arrived in his automobile from Milan.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 91 

Thereupon I made my most ceremonious bow, 
and we all sat down. 

“I was looking everywhere,” said the Contes- 
sina “to discover the owner of that limousine. 
So it belongs to you?” 

“And very much at your service, Contes- 
sina.” 

Hereupon I underwent a rapid fire of ques- 
tions by the Contessina regarding my auto- 
mobile. 

“New model, yes, Contessina. Twenty-four 
horse power, automatic starter, electric lights.” 

“Is this your first visit to P ?” 

“No, I have been here several times, but never 
under such fortunate circumstances.” 

“Then you must know the artistic antiquities 
of P ?” 

“I am sorry to say, no,” I replied, “but your 
presence is excuse enough for my being unaware 
that this neighborhood has any artistic antiqui- 
ties.” 

The Contessina once more repeated her, “Ha, 
ha, ha!” then she added, “Very gallantly said!” 

“Contessina,” I replied gravely, “I always 
keep a firm footing upon the literal truth.” 

“You come from Milan?” 

“Yes, straight from Milan.” 

“Are you in close touch with the artists 
there?” 


92 


WANTED — A WIFE 


“Lionello . . 

“Ah, do you know Lionello? Delicious, deli- 
cious, delicious !” 

(Fortunate Lionello! Wherever I go, all the 
ladies call him “delicious.”) 

“But with some reservations,” said I. 

“You mean to say?” 

“I wouldn’t dare, Signorina.” 

“Pray don’t hesitate.” 

“He is a little — a little — How shall I put it? 
In certain situations in his plays, he is rather 
daring. . . 

The Contessina repeated her “Ha, ha, ha!” in 
a most disconcerting manner. 

“But in art, my dear sir,” she told me, “it 
is no longer the fashion to beat about the bush 
through three hundred pages. Does it offend 
you? Are you, by chance, a moral reformer?” 

“Heaven forbid,” said I. 

She studied me a moment, and then asked, 

“Are you also an artist?” 

“Yes, Signorina! An artist of beauty.” 

Hereupon Maioli explained that I was the 
head of the firm of X & Company. “A busi- 

ness man, to be sure! But what of it? To-day 
the whole world is trending that way.” 

The Contessina repeated her “Ha, ha, ha !” in 
a way that I found offensive. I pride myself on 
being a perfect gentleman as regards pretty 


WANTED— A WIFE 


93 


women, reserving my right to square accounts 
with the homely ones. Accordingly, I took no 
offense at this repeated “Ha, ha, ha !” but merely 
said to Signor Maioli; “I beg you to note that 
business men are essentially energetic and worth 
the whole tribe of painters and poets, since they 
constitute the solid, and at the same time, easy- 
running roadbed on which the entire train of 
civilization* passes. Sleeping-car, first class, 
third class, even the cattle trains. Do you get 
me?” I spoke with considerable energy. 

The Contessina became quite serious, and said, 
“Why, your friend is very intelligent, dear 
Maioli.” 

“Of course he is. Any man who makes his 
million in these days is intelligent, altogether 
too intelligent !” sighed Maioli. 

“Oh, Maioli,” said I, “a million! that’s what 
they used to say. But to-day, what does a mil- 
lion amount to? It is hardly enough for even 
a modest scale of living. But what is a mill- 
ion, what is a billion in comparison with divine 
beauty? The epiphany of beauty, as Lionello 
would say? A mere nothing! A vanishing 
point.” 

“Why, he is really charming, this friend of 
yours, dear Maioli,” said the Contessina. 

“He is a happy man,” said Maioli. 

“Happiness is a duty,” said the Contessina. 


94 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“I like that thought/’ said I, “although for 
the last half hour I have ceased to know whether 
I am happy or unhappy?” 

“Which means to say?” inquired the Contes- 
sina, transforming her whole face into a tragic 
mask. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” 

“But you never dare anything!” 

“Well then, Contessina, if I must confess, this 
making your acquaintance ...” 

The tragic mask dissolved suddenly into a 
comic one, and she burst out once more with 
her light tinkling “Ha, ha, ha!” This lady 
is certainly disconcerting. 

“Oh, there is mamma!” suddenly exclaimed 
the Contessina. A carriage had drawn up be- 
fore the door of the pastry shop. Donna Ghi- 
selda rose, and ran to the door. Maioli, also, 
got up and started out to pay his respects to 
the old lady. I remained sitting there alone, 
and idly opened the prayer book, which the 
Contessina had laid upon the table, when sud- 
denly I heard myself addressed: 

“So, you are prying into my secrets! You 
have a great deal of curiosity!” 

It w r as the Contessina who had come upon me 
unawares to rescue her prayer book from my 
hands. 

“I beg your pardon,” said I. 


WANTED— A WIFE 


95 


“Would you like to see? Are you really cu- 
rious?” 

She opened the book herself, and I read: 
“Paul Verlaine: Confessions 

“Have you read them?” 

“No, I’m sorry to say.” 

“Religious poems, or on that order.” 

I too accompanied the Contessina through 
the door. A black coupe was standing there; 
within the coupe, a commanding face framed in 
silver hair : the Countess Mother. But the new 
introduction was of the most perfunctory sort, 
because the old lady is quite deaf. The Contes- 
sina sprang in, the coupe door was closed; we 
made our bow. 

“Ah, Maioli,” cried the Contessina, suddenly 
thrusting out her head as the coupe started, “you 
might arrange with your friend to make up a 
party to visit all the artistic monuments.” 

“What an honor,” I exclaimed! 

An old black horse in ancient silver-mounted 
harness set off at a leisurely trot, and the coupe 
departed. 

“Poor Grifone!” exclaimed Maioli. 

“Who is Grifone?” 

“The horse belonging to the Countess 
Mother.” 

“That horse,” said I, “must date from the 
family’s heroic days.” 


96 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“And what days they were, my friend !” sighed 
Maioli.” 

“You have barely had a glimpse of the Count- 
ess Mother ! She was once one of the most fas- 
cinating and, so to speak, radio-active women 
that I have ever known. But she was ancien 
regime! Ah, my good friend, those who have 
not known the ancien regime, do not know, as 
Prince Talleyrand used to say, the true mean- 
ing of the joy of living. What a woman, the 
Countess Mother ! I once defined her as ‘a 
bouquet of roses in a confessional.’ Rather neat, 
don’t you think? Her salon distils sad mem- 
ories to men of my age. We were at the flood- 
tide of romanticism then, and all the young men 
considered themselves knights.” 

“And the Contessina shared her favors with 
the whole knightly company?” 

“How plebeian you always are in your expres- 
sions, my dear Sconer! In any case, you can- 
not be unaware that a lady of great beauty can- 
not evade certain obligations which such beauty 
imposes !” 

“And is there not danger, dear Count, that the 
daughter may follow in the footsteps of her 
mother?” 

“I admire your foresight ; but it is groundless, 
for a very simple reason : Donna Ghiselda is es- 
sentially an intellectual.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE HEROIC LOVES OF THE CONTESSINA 

1 ASKED Maioli to get into the automobile and 
come and take luncheon with me at the hotel. 
The Hotel of the Golden Eagle where I had 
taken a room in passing, was a solitary and 
gloomy edifice, just as everything in the town 
is solitary and gloomy, excepting the little 
stretch of the Corso. 

“This hotel has lodged Joseph II, Charles the 
Bourbon and Charles the Happy,” said Maioli. 

“It is evident,” said I, “that those gentlemen 
in their time were not fastidious.” 

At last a waiter in prehistoric habiliments, 
appeared in the dining-room, and Maioli pro- 
ceeded to give his orders. 

“Have you tortelloni di rieottd, with meat 
gravy? Excellent. But smoking hot! And 
afterwards, which do you prefer, Sconer, an 
omelet with truffles, or a veal cutlet with bacon? 
They are both specialties of the town.” 

When the smoking platter of tortelloni with 
meat gravy arrived, one searching glance suf- 
ficed to assure him that it was all that it should 
be. 


97 


98 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“Incomparable, eh?” said Maioli as he grace- 
fully slid into his small well-shaped mouth the 
first tortellone , that dripped big tears of butter. 

“What’s incomparable? The tortellom?” 

“No! Donna Ghiselda. Admit the truth: 
She surpassed your expectations, Sconer.” 

“Quite so. She is rather astonishing even if 
one does come from Milan. If she let down all 
that hair, it would be a blond Niagara.” 

“And then, her enduring quality !” said Maioli, 
“You see, true beauty is the lasting kind, or- 
ganic, racial. And have you observed? In 
Donna Ghiselda you have a blending of the 
rectilinear and the curvilinear; of the evanes- 
cent with the consistent; of classic beauty with 
modern caprice. And look at the way she 
walks! Nowadays every tradesman’s wife 
walks with the same mincing, affected steps. 
But Ghiselda is natural, like an eight-spring 
stage coach of the good old times, and at the 
same time she is as rhythmic as though hidden 
cupids marked time for her on unseen violins. 
True beauty, you see, Sconer, always obeys some 
rhythm in all its movements. And her extrem- 
ities? My friend, have you observed her ex- 
tremities? Give Venus Callipyge a pair of 
huge feet, and Venus is ruined.” At this point 
in came the cutlets with bacon. Maioli paused, 
examined the cutlets, assured himself that they 


WANTED— A WIFE 


99 


were quite right, and then continued : “The ex- 
tremities, my friend ! The despair of nature, of 
painting and, let us add, of the bourgeoisie! I 
admit, Sconer, that I admire the modern prog- 
ress shown is a well manicured hand. But it 
savors of the artificial. I cannot conceive of a 
goddess having recourse to manicures and pedi- 
cures.” 

“Count,” said I, “perhaps the Contessina is a 
little too imposing for me.” 

“I was prepared to have you make that objec- 
tion. But please remember that your pocket 
editions of society dolls are a form of degen- 
eracy. But in Ghiselda’s case I will explain 
why you think her so imposing: it is because 
you are not accustomed to the majesty of race. 
But you have observed how she laughs?” 

“Yes, I have. She is all the time bursting 
out with a ‘ha ! ha ! ha !’ for nothing at all. She 
seems to include the whole surrounding audi- 
ence. Yet I like it, because it sounds as though 
she had genuine pearls in her throat.” 

“And her eyes, my dear friend? Aren’t they 
amazing?” 

“Her eyes,” said I, “are indeed exceptional. 
Perhaps a little too much maquillag e>, but I 
don’t mind that.” 

“That is proof of your good taste,” said 
Maioli. “Making up their faces was already 


100 


WANTED — A WIFE 


an established custom among the ladies of an- 
cient Egypt. And what did you think of Ghi- 
selda’ s intelligence? Had she lived in other 
times she would have been destined to leave her 
imprint upon the pages of history. If Ghiselda 
does you the honor to become your wife, your 
home will be the rendezvous of the most distin- 
guished personalities in art and politics.” 

“Let us be careful, my dear Count, not to antic- 
ipate events too fast. What I am more inter- 
ested in knowing is how it happens that the 
Contessina is still unmarried at what we may 
call a somewhat advanced period in life’s spring- 
time.” 

“Why, that is only natural! Would you ex- 
pect a woman like that to fall in love with an 
ordinary man? But replying more directly to 
the question you ask, I will tell you that Ghi- 
selda, alas! has consumed her best years in a 
fruitless passion for a young man who showed 
great promise.” 

“Count,” I interrupted, “this sounds serious 
to me.” 

“Serious isn’t the word, because in Donna 
Ghiselda all things are pure. It is a case of 
heroic love!” 

“In that case, let us hear the rest.” 

Maioli sipped his glass of chartreuse with the 


WANTED — A WIFE 101 

tip of his tongue, but instead of continuing he 
asked me this question: 

“Do you know what is really and truly the 
worst evil from which Italy is suffering ?” 

“She hasn’t learned how to advertise herself.” 

“Pray be serious, Sconer! Italy’s greatest 
evil is that she lacks an aristocracy! That the 
healthy forces of the nation are not organized 
against the canaille! It is true that we nobles 
have sacrificed our own interests for the good 
of Italy; but so little gratitude do we get that 
if one of us dares to speak, they tell us; ‘Hold 
your tongue, you are a reactionary!’ If we 
wish to live we must be silent. In this sec- 
tion the lower classes are worse than in Milan, 
worse than in Turin, worse than in Bologna, 
and that says the whole thing! At all events, 
one day there appeared among us a man of 
genius. Did I say genius? Alas! we thought 
he was! He spoke admirably; he challenged 
the common herd with magnificent invective: 
‘Wretched slaves, fit only to open the doors 
through which the man of genius may pass! 
Beasts of burden, fit for nothing but to bear the 
weight of the nation’s glory! No truce with 
the canaille! If the canaille comes into power, 
the first thing it will do will be to raise the 
gallows for us. Let us raise the gallows for 


102 


WANTED— A WIFE 


them, while we still have time!’ Fine, isn’t it? 
But the real genius was not he, it was Ghiselda ! 
The dear girl gave her all for the great cause. 
She played the part of his Nymph Egeria! We 
became aware at election time that he was not 
a genius. That electoral contest proved to be 
a real disaster, my good friend.” 

“That I can well believe. For my part 
there is as little choice in politics as between 
your omelet with truffles and your cutlet with 
bacon — but in the one case we must have eggs, 
and in the other we must have veal.” 

“In other words . . . ?” 

“In other words, you all fell down because 
you are as sapless as dried figs.” 

“Oh! oh! oh!” protested Maioli, scandalized. 
“We could have stood up against a spadeful, 
but not an artillery fire of slime!” 

“One can wash up afterwards,” said I. “Our 
firm specializes in soap. And was the Contes- 
sina in the thick of it?” 

“It was terrible, my dear friend, terrible. 
There were allusions in their shameless papers, 
vile gutter phrases, and during the election there 
were actually obscene cartoons on the walls. 
Those cattle do not even know the meaning of 
the word ‘chivalry.’ The poor girl did not ven- 
ture to show herself in the streets; and when I 


WANTED— A WIFE 


103 


left my house in the morning I felt my knees 
tremble under me.” 

“And her love for the man of genius ?” 

“Vanished! You understand that when a 
man of genius makes a fiasco, he ceases to be 
a man of genius. Poor dear girl! The rabble 
insisted that it was she who had ruined him. 
I need only add that she was obliged for a time 
to remain secluded in her magnificent family 
estate, The Cypresses. ‘Maioli/ she used to 
say to me, fit is terrible! I am desperate. 

Sooner than live any longer in P I would 

marry the first man I could get/ ” 

“Whereupon you thought of me,” said I. 

“Sconer ! Sconer, you hurt my feelings ! On 
the contrary, I must tell you that after a time 
Ghiselda calmed down; another kind of activ- 
ity absorbed her completely. Art, my friend, 
sublime, sublime art! Though you, of course, 
cannot understand.” 

While we were talking in this strain, a pat- 
ter-clack, patter-clack was heard on the silent 
road below us. Maioli almost overturned the 
table, dishes and all, in his haste to reach the 
balcony. 

“It is she. Come, hurry! Ah, you are too 
late. She has gone by! All the same, come, 
come! You can admire the rear view, Venus 
Callipyge.” 


104 


WANTED— A WIFE 


I too hurried out; I was barely in time to 
catch a glimpse of the Contessina, in riding 
habit, disappearing in the distance with a 
mounted cavalier. 

“Who is that with her?” 

“Her brother. Count Desiderio, a lieutenant in 
the cavalry.” 


CHAPTER IX 


AN ARTISTIC EXCURSION 

T HAT night I dreamed of the Contessina. I 
was a Turkish Pasha, like the one in the pic- 
ture, seated on his throne buying nude slave 
girls. I was buying Ghiselda; I felt her over and 
examined her carefully. I gave Maioli, who was 
the negro slave dealer, a considerable number of 
those faithful friends called ten-lire notes. 
Ghiselda was humble and silent and, clad only 
in her own hair, she was a sight to drive one 
crazy ! 

I was in the midst of dressing the next morn- 
ing when the man servant brought me this note : 

Dear Sooner: 

Donna Ghiselda does you the honor to 
serve as your guide in a visit to the monuments 
and environs. Have your automobile ready at 
two o’clock. 

Maioli. 

“Fine,” said I, “this means a pleasant day.” 
But alas and alack! They made me use up 
gallon upon gallon of gasoline, at the price it 

105 


106 


WANTED— A WIFE 


costs to-day, and I did not have a single happy 
moment. 

Here is how it all passed off: at two o’clock 
the Contessina arrived with Maioli and a third 
individual, a sort of dwarf, who barely reached 
up to my shoulder and wore a khaki-colored 
sport coat. 

“Cioceolani,” said the Contessina to me, by 
way of introducing him. Just Cioceolani, and 
nothing more ! The little dwarf contented him- 
self with bowing his head, as though some one had 
dragged it down against his will with a string. 
Maioli explained that the gentleman did me the 
honor to serve as artistic guide. “By all means,” 
said I, “pray join us,” and without further urg- 
ing the dwarf installed himself beside the Contes- 
sina and assumed command of my automobile. 

Thus began the personally conducted tour of 
the monuments: churches, baptistery, cloisters, 
palaces, monasteries, and so forth. I am going 
to be frank : I had no desire to see any of these 
things; but since the proposal had come from 
them, courtesy demanded that they should take 
the trouble to explain them. On the contrary, 
I might as well not have been there ! At every 
place we came to such a violent discussion broke 
out between them that at one place a priest 
came out to protest against the noise. 

They kept telling me “Look here! . . . Look 


WANTED — A WIFE 


107 


there! ... Do you see that?” Usually this 
was in the churches where it was so dark that I 
could see nothing at all. Besides what differ- 
ence did it make to me anyway? But the limit 
was reached when Maioli was in the midst of tell- 
ing me, “Look up there, isn’t that divine? By 
Giotto, you know ! And the apse, Pinturic- 
chio . . .” And more of the same sort ; I heard 
the other two laughing, and the dwarf saying, 
“Dynamite, dynamite !” 

I went over to them and looking down at 
him from the vantage of my full height, I de- 
manded. “And why dynamite?” He raised his 
impudent face toward mine, and said, “To demol- 
ish all these cemeteries of the past that put 
their taboo on the future. Do you happen to be 
of a contrary opinion?” 

“Not in the least! Blow them up by all 
means. Even in Milan we have futurists who 
think as you do.” 

“They too a,re out of date now,” he replied. 

“So much the better,” said I. 

“Sconer, Sconer!” cried Maioli in deep emo- 
tion, “Look over there at that tryptich! Isn’t 
it divine, eh, what?” 

“Well, don’t weep over it, Maioli, even if it 
is. Tell me, instead, who in the world is that 
little half -package f” 

“An artist.” 


108 WANTED— A WIFE 


“An architect?” 

“No.” 

“A painter?” 

“No, a poet.” 

“A local poet?” 

“One of our shining lights.” 

“But what does he do? How does he live?” 

“He writes great poetry.” 

Such was our artistic tour of the monuments. 
The privilege of paying the tips was left to 
me. 

Afterwards came the excursion into the en- 
virons. Our artistic guide continued to give 
the orders. It was almost a pleasure to hear him 
commanding, as calmly as though he himself 
owned the automobile: “Faster, faster!” And 
turn to the right, turn to the left, uphill, down- 
hill, all at full speed ! “Faster ! Faster ! Let’s 
overtake Boote’s Wagon ! Let us collide with the 
star Vega!” I heard him telling the Contessina. 
The Contessina was waving a bunch of long- 
stemmed roses in her hand, and she too kept 
saying: “Faster, faster!” 

But since the automobile was mine, and 
Biagino, my chauffeur, had no special dispen- 
sation from providence, we stopped a moment, 
long enough for me to take my place beside 
him. If we should run down any one, I was 
the one who would pay the piper. 


WANTED — A WIFE 


109 


It was fair to. suppose that out here in the 
open country those three would get along peace- 
ably: because the country is what it is. But 
not a bit of it! “Nature,” cried the poet, “de- 
mands abuse, she needs to be kicked and 
beaten !” 

“Not at all,” said Maioli, “nature needs ca- 
resses.” 

“No, no, Maioli,” said the Contessina, “Vio- 
lence alone is dynamic. “Stop, stop,” she cried 
the next moment. 

“Please stop the car,” I said to Biagino; and 
w r e came to a standstill. 

“Tell us, Signor Sconer,” said the Contes- 
sina, “since you have, so to speak, a virgin soul, 
what do you see?” 

“I?” 

“Yes, you,” said the Contessina, “what do 
you see before you?” 

“The road, and if we are not more care- 
ful . . ” 

“No, I am speaking of the landscape.” 

“Ah !” 

It was about half past six: the sun was set- 
ting in the midst of fine May weather; there 
were some pretty green hillocks, and on the hil- 
locks some pretty white cottages with their 
windows wide open, and everything seemed to be 
at rest. 


110 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“What do I see? Some houses on a hill,” I 
replied. 

“Look again.” 

“I have looked again : houses on a hill.” 

“That is the first reaction,” said the Contes- 
sina. “But if you concentrate you will get the 
second reaction. In other words, if you were a 
painter what would you paint?” 

“Cottages on the hill,” said I. 

“But do you not see,” insisted the Contes- 
sina, “something else floating in the atmo- 
sphere?” 

“No, I am sorry, but I don’t.’ 

Our artistic guide gave an impatient gesture. 
He was beginning to be rather annoying. 

“Excuse me,” said Maioli, “but neither do I 
see anything but cottages on a hill. ...” 

“That is because you are old,” said the artistic 
guide bluntly. “Your eye is nothing more nor 
less than a photographic machine ; you have no 
reactions ; you do not see the vibrant movements. 
Those cottages are dancing in a slow rhythm, 
but still they are dancing; those open windows 
are exclaiming beatifically, ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ We 
must express the dancing and the beatitude. In 
order to express what this gentleman” (he meant 
me!) “calls cottages, I should adopt a theory 
of young girls undulating in rhythm, with wide 


WANTED— A WIFE 


111 


open mouths beatifically saying, ‘Oh, oh, oh’ !” 

The Contessina was all enthusiasm. 

“And any one,” concluded Cioccolani, “who 
cannot get that reaction is a rhinoceros!” He 
was talking to Maioli, but I felt that he referred 
to me. I felt that the time had come to retaliate. 

“Yes,” said I, “for my part I don’t care 
whether they are cottages or young girls, but 
it strikes me that you don’t know the meaning 
of the word ‘modesty.’ ” 

“Modesty? Ha, ha, ha!” Both he and the 
Contessina burst out laughing as though they 
had gone mad. I should like to know what I 
said to make them laugh like that. 

That was how our artistic pilgrimage turned 
out. Its effect upon the far-sighted mind of 
Ginetto Sconer has been steadily more profit- 
able. The excursion furnished me with a cap- 
ital specimen of what my home would be like 
after it had become the rendezvous of the most 
distinguished personalities in art and politics. 

The following day I made inquiries, with the 
following result. The old Countess was so gen- 
erous in her gallantries that she distributed 
her favors not only to noble cavaliers, but to 
the household retinue. The old Count, her hus- 
band, employed himself in liquidating his 


112 


WANTED— A WIFE 


patrimony at Monte Carlo. The son, Desiderio, 
an officer in the cavalry, would follow if he 
could in the paternal footsteps, His last hope 
had been to marry the daughter of a millionaire 
cheese merchant. But this marriage went up 
in smoke, because the girl’s parents realized that 
in war times a cavalry officer was likely to be 
killed, and they did not care for a wedding that 
involved the prospect of a funeral. There are 
some people who still have their heads on their 
shoulders. 

There remains the palace, plastered over with 
mortgages; there remains the blue blood, al- 
though many people say that the blue blood of 
the father must be left out of the reckoning. 
There remains Grifone, the historic black horse, 
with his silver trappings, who draws the aged 
carriage of the aged Countess. As for the Con- 
tessina, there are some who claim that she lacks 
something beside a sum-total of blue blood; 
others limit themselves to the bar sinister. 

Now, however susceptible Ginetto Sconer may 
be, he still has his head on his shoulders, and his 
brain between his ears. 

“My dear Count,” I said to Maioli, “I am 
sorry; but marriage is not a lyric poem, but a 
long continued epic. I have taken thought and 
I refuse.” (Exclamations of amazement.) 
I continued: “I might add that the merchan- 


WANTED— A WIFE 


113 


dise does not come up to the specifications.” 

(Exclamations of protest.) 

“But that is not the reason. You were try- 
ing to sell me a clouded title, as the real estate 
men put it. You talked of blue blood, but you 
never once hinted that the blue blood is so di- 
luted that there is no telling how much of it is 
assets and how much liabilities.” 

“What a shocking way to talk,” exclaimed 
Maioli. “You talk to me of assets and liabil- 
ities, when I have offered to make you captain 
of the prettiest craft that ever navigated the 
feminine ocean!” 

“Yes, with a good chance of being torpedoed !” 

“You are a man of ice, a cold calculator! 
But you will be punished! Love concedes its 
supreme joys only to those who are prepared for 
the supreme risks. You are a puny soul. You 
will never be loved, never!” 

He turned his back on me. That man is as 
idiotic as he is dreadful. 


CHAPTER X 


THE LADY OF THE CARAMELS 

1 HAVE been resolute, as my habit, regardless 
of my own sufferings. “Because,” I told 
myself, as I sipped the excellent coffee at the 
Madalena pastry shop, at half-past-ten in the 
morning, an hour when the shop is deserted, “I 
might pass over the Contessina’s early indiscre- 
tions, but the bar sinister is different. If my 
heir should be born w T ith a bar sinister of his 
own, I should have taken out a tremendous mort- 
gage on my entire patrimony, material and 
moral. No, no, never that! Well, then, let’s 
pack our luggage and go back to Milan.” 

A pyramid of marrons glaces attracted my 
attention. I helped myself to one and ate it. 
It made me sad, for it reminded me of the marron 
glace that had vanished two days ago within 
the mouth of the Contessina. 

So likewise my hopes had vanished ! Ah, well, 
let us honor the dead and remember that one 
must always be a gentleman! I will pay my 
homage to the Contessina by sending her a box 
of marrons glaces. “Put me up a box of marrons 
114 


WANTED— A WIFE 


115 


glaces” I told the confectioner, “with other 
bonbons, and kindly deliver them to the Contes- 
sina Ghiselda.” Perhaps it was a rather com- 
monplace sort of gift, but I decided that I would 
remedy that with a neatly turned note express- 
ing my sentiments. 

I was wholly absorbed in the task of distilling 
my note, when I heard, from the direction of the 
counter, a confused discussion about caramels, 
the price of caramels, the scarcity of caramels 
— and all of a sudden I was struck by the fol- 
lowing words: 

“Of course I use a great many caramels! 
Every morning when my husband leaves the 
house, I put a caramel in his mouth.” Who on 
earth could have uttered these extraordinary 
words? Who could this prodigious creature be, 
who every morning put a caramel in her hus- 
band’s mouth ? I raised my eyes and saw a lady 
conversing with the confectioner ; a lady of mid- 
dle age, but well preserved and quietly dressed. 
I became quite interested. 

The pastry man tied up the package of cara- 
mels and consigned it, with an expansive ges- 
ture, to the lady, saying: 

“And many, many greetings to the counselor 
. . . (That must be the husband, lucky man!) 

“ . . . and many greetings also to the Signor- 
ina! Tell her besides that if she wants to see 


116 


WANTED — A WIFE 


how the quince preserve is made, she must come 
without hesitation, in September.” 

That must be the daughter, or one of the 
daughters! How intuitive I am! If the mother 
puts a caramel in her husband’s mouth, it is fair 
to assume that the daughter will also put a car- 
amel in her husband’s mouth, or something 
equally sweet. 

I am dazed at my discovery. It remains to 
find out whether this daughter responds equally 
well to the aesthetic requirements. No sooner 
had the lady departed than I asked : 

“Is the Signora’s husband a lawyer that one 
could have confidence in? 

“You could take him with your eyes shut, just 
as you can his wife.” 

“The wife too can be taken with one’s eyes 
shut?” 

“If one took her with one’s eyes open, one 
would no longer take her at all.” (The pastry 
makers of this vicinity are quite intelligent.) I 
asked in reply : 

“This daughter of theirs is rather homely, isn’t 
she?” 

“On the contrary, a rose-bud!” 

“Hardly more than a child, as I remember?” 

“She was a child a year ago, but she is grown 
up now. Young girls grow like the grass, night 
and day.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


117 


“Still, one doesn’t often see her around town, 
this Signorina Rosebud?” 

“The girls that you do see about town aren’t 
to be trusted,” answered the pastry man, pulling 
a very wry face. 

I obtained further information. The Coun- 
selor stands well in his profession. He has 

his office in his own house, on the Via X ; 

but he does not live in town excepting in the 
winter months. Throughout the warm weather 
he lives with his family in a country place a few 
miles outside, and comes into town every morn- 
ing, returning home at night. 

Of the wife they could tell me nothing either 
good or bad. So she must be a worthy sort of 
woman ; because it is only the worthy women of 
whom people have nothing to say. As for the 
daughter, she is completely ignored. 

“But that is natural, my dear Ginetto,” I told 
myself. “If the young lady really belongs within 
the classification of Dr. Pertusius, she is not a 
rose-bud but a double violet, and double violets 
bloom in secret.” 

I have delayed my departure. Instead of 
packing my suit-case I shall remain on the spot. 
Perhaps I have found a wife ! 


CHAPTER XI 


THE DOUBLE VIOLET 

I T was a beautiful May-day afternoon, as the 
novelists put it ; so I told Biagino to make a 
circuit of the suburbs, among the low, green 
hills, crowned with white cottages with wide 
open windows. I was bent upon identifying the 
cottage which belonged to the Lady of the Car- 
amels. 

We had reached the foot of a long ascent and 
I was glancing around me when I heard a sharp 
whirr of wheels, and saw a bicycle coming down 
from the top of the hill at a reckless speed, rid- 
den by a young girl sitting very erect. She 
turned out and flashed past us like a streak. It 
was she! I could not get a good view of her 
face, but it must have been she! 

Presently, after perhaps a quarter of an hour, 
I beheld her coming back ; but this time she was 
on foot, and accompanied by a man — her papa. 

The dear girl! She had gone to meet her 
papa! They were approaching together, just 
the two of them, very slowly, talking so busily 
that they were not even aware of my automobile 
118 


WANTED— A WIFE 


119 


standing in the road. On the other hand I was 
so ambushed behind my goggles and hat brim 
that they could not have recognized me again in 
any case. 

I got no better sight of her face this time than 
I had done before. But judging by her figure 
she must be charming. 

Part of the time she was caressing papa with 
her long slender hand ; part of the time she was 
dancing on ahead of him, along the road; and 
then again she hung upon papa’s arm, while 
he wheeled the bicycle with his other hand. 
How gracefully she moved clinging to papa’s 
arm! 

I have since succeeded in identifying the house 
also — something halfway between a villa and a 
bungalow; a neat, well-painted fence, a well 
kept pathway paved with little stones, and bor- 
dered with fruit trees trained upon lattices, with 
here and there big tubs containing lemon trees. 
On either side is garden space devoted to peas, 
lettuce and other botanical food. 

One morning, quite unexpectedly, I saw the 
Caramel Lady giving orders to a servant, when, 
clucky cluck, duck! here came a superb flock of 
poultry. There was nothing very high-life in all 
this; but if you stop to think of it in the true 
English sense of a homey then it really becomes 
rather fine. At all events, a lady who interests 


120 WANTED — A WIFE 

herself in raising chickens offers a substantial 
guarantee. 

As for the daughter, I learned that she goes 
every day at the same hour in the afternoon, 
to meet papa at the point where the trolley ends. 
Friday is the only day she misses. 

About ten o’clock in the morning the maid 
goes down the road with a basket, to buy pro- 
visions at the shops outside the town gate. I 
have resolved to have a talk with that maid. I 
shall waylay her at one of the turns of the road. 


CHAPTER XII 


INTERVIEWING A HANDMAID 

T HE maid was descending a narrow little 
lane between two hedges of white haw- 
thorne, bare-headed, with market basket in hand, 
dancing as she came. She is a florid, robust 
girl, built on the peasant pattern, but with a 
certain veneer of citified manners. Thick lips, 
cheeks suffused with health, not to mention pim- 
ples. I crossed over to meet her, and opened 
as follow^: 

“I would like a word with you, Signorina. 
In the house up yonder many queer things are 
happening. Cries have been heard; signalling 
wdth white flags has been seen. Furthermore, 
every afternoon a young girl is seen rushing 
headlong down to the trolley station, to keep 
an appointment with a man in black — every 
afternoon excepting Friday. Why not Friday? 
It is very mysterious. You realize that this is 
war-time ?” 

The young woman was divided between an 
impulse to laugh and to take alarm. 

“Are you from the police?” 

121 


122 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“Let us suppose that I am.” 

“The screams/’ said she, “are my young mis- 
tress singing.” 

“So your young mistress sings and plays the 
piano?” 

“She sings without any piano. And the 
w T hite flags waving are when the week’s wa^h is 
hung out to dry.” 

“People send their week’s wash to the laun- 
dry,” said I. 

“Oh, but my mistress doesn’t; she has the 
wash done at home. But how many more things 
do you want to know? If you spent more time 
catching thieves and less time talking we would 
all be better off !” 

She had me there so I changed my tactics. 

“Listen : I am a business man, and I want 
some confidential information about your master 
. . . and this is for yourself,” so saying I pre- 
sented her with a crisp ten lire note that set her 
smiling. She refused the money, however, be- 
cause she had nothing but good to say of her 
master, the Counselor. 

“That does you honor, but it is a fixed rule 
that one must never refuse money. So the 
Signorina sings?” 

“Every morning, like a chaffinch.” 

“Then she is not the melancholy sort?” 

“Melancholy? So long as she is alive and 


WANTED — A WIFE 


123 


well, what reason should she have for being 
melancholy ?” 

“I am glad to hear you say that, because it 
is my own way of thinking. So the Signorina 
rises early in the morning?” 

‘Of course she does, because she goes to bed 
early at night. But the things you want to 
know are all about my young mistress, and not 
at all about my master !” 

I praised her perspicacity and begged her to 
accept a gold piece. I always reward intelli- 
gence because it has always proved good business 
to do so. But I warned her not to exchange 
it at face value, since gold pieces have become 
as rare as museum exhibits. Gold, I told her, 
was a precious metal, because it bought smiles 
of happiness. At this the maid herself smiled, 
and seemed disposed to enter into an alliance 
with me. I asked why her young mistress did 
not go to meet her father on Fridays. “Was 
it,” I ventured, “because she had a headache?” 

“The Signorina never has headaches.” 

“Perhaps she had a toothache?” 

“The Signorina never has a toothache.” 

“Perhaps she had indigestion?” 

The maid assured me that the Signorina never 
had indigestion. “But what silly questions you 
ask !” 

“Never mind about the questions; just pay 


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attention to your answers. So the Signorina 
spends her Fridays reading novels ?” Ah, de- 
lightful novels, full of romance that sets young 
hearts abeating!” 

The maid admitted that in her former place 
there was a young lady who was forever read- 
ing novels, and who expected her to share in the 
emotions caused by the reading. But the Sig- 
norina Oretta did not read novels. 

“So your young mistress is named Oretta?” 

“Yes, Oretta.” 

“Never heard it before, but it’s a pretty 
name. And if she doesn’t play the piano, and 
doesn’t read novels, what does she do all day?” 

“What does she do, you ask? What does she 
do? What do we all do all day long? Go ask 
the Signora! There is never any end at all to 
the work to be done in that house !” 

“Then,” said I, “on Fridays, Signorina Oretta 
is busy writing to her best young man!” 

Oh, what a thing for me to have said! — 
“Although it is true,” the maid went on to ad- 
mit, “that now-a-days young ladies begin talk- 
ing about their beaux before they have put on 
long skirts !” But never had she heard the Sig- 
norina Oretta utter a word about beaux. 

“Will you guarantee that she hasn’t any 
beaux?” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


125 


“Why, if she had even a single one, I should 
be the first to know it.” 

“Then why doesn’t she come on Fridays?” 

This was a secret, which the maid finally con- 
fided to me, after exacting a solemn promise 
that I would never reveal it to any one. Two 
years ago the Signora had been very ill; and 
during her illness, the Signorina had made a 
vow to the Lord that if her mamma was cured, 
she would always spend her Fridays in her own 
room. The Signora was cured, so the Signo- 
rina never leaves the house on Fridays. 

“So you see, Signor, that is just a silly 
reason !” 

“That is true,” I replied. But it means that 
the Signorina keeps the terms of her contracts, 
and that pleases me.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


A SECOND INTERVIEW WITH THE HANDMAID 

T HIS Signorina fnfills all the exceptional 
requirements laid down by Dr. Pertusius. 
She is somewhat primitive; but when trans- 
planted from her rural environment into my 
garden, the simple flower will bloom like a dou- 
ble rose. While I lay, late in the morning, in the 
bed where Joseph II and all those other kings 
once slept, I enjoyed in anticipation the changes 
which were to be wrought in the simple Oretta 
by my potent hands; and I could hear her ex- 
claim, “Ginetto, you make me suffer too, too 
much! Yet it is wrong of you, Ginetto, to be 
thinking wholly of yourself. There is the heir 
to be thought of !” 

My heir will cry, and do other things that 
are unsesthetic. And it is expecting too much 
to demand that Oretta shall be simultaneously 
sparkling champagne for me and the fount of 
life for my heir. The birth of an heir being 
already a settled question; I decided to have 
another interview with the maid. 

This time I went to waylay the maid decked 
126 


WANTED— A WIFE 


127 


in all the splendor of a new spring suit. Ac- 
cordingly when the girl saw me she was be- 
wildered, and hardly recognized me. (On the 
previous day I had deliberately adopted a dis- 
graceful shabbiness. ) 

“Oher marvels are in store for you, my child, 1 ” 
said I. “But first of all, tell me your name.” 

“Lisetta.” 

“Well then, Lisetta, we are on the way to be- 
come good friends. But you must prepare to 
become my collaborator.” 

“Whatever do you mean,” she demanded. 

“I will explain,” said I. 

But in addition to her market-basket Lisetta 
was carrying a package done up in newspaper, 
with lacings hanging out. Evidently a pair of 
shoes. “Your shoes, Lisetta?” 

“No, the Signorina’s.” 

“Do let me see them.” 

I looked at them. The sight of those shoes, 
although they conformed to the ideas of Dr. 
Pertusius, drove a thorn into my heart. 

“Tell me,” said I, has the Signorina a pretty 
foot?” 

“Like my own,” said Lisetta. 

“But in smaller proportions, I trust?” 

From the foot I ascended with cautious ques- 
tions to higher regions; but here Lisetta could 
give me only vague information. Sure, she 


128 


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could tell me about the other young ladies, who 
wore lace chemises that were too thin to 
cover . . . 

“I understand. Go on!” 

“ . . . And besides they posed like statues in 
front of the mirror. But Signorina Oretta 
wears a chemise as long as Saint Veronica’s. 
But anyhow she is a brunette.” 

“But these shoes are only fit to throw away,” 
said I. 

“Throw away? I am taking them to be re- 
soled. Just you go and say ‘throw away’ to the 
Signora! Especially to-day, with shoes at the 
price they are ! We don’t throw away anything, 
not even the dish gravy.” 

“Indeed!” 

“No, we keep a pig.” 

“A useful animal, but unpoetic. A home with 
chickens is all very well; but when it comes to 
a pig! ...” 

However, I said: “Listen to me, Lisetta. 
Supposing there should come one of those ab- 
solutely exceptional young men, handsome and 
rich, such as you read about in novels ; a 
thorough gentleman, who wishes, perhaps, to 
marry your young mistress, Signorina Or- 
etta. . . 

“Meaning yourself, maybe,” And she looked 
me straight in the eye. 


WANTED— A WIFE 


129 


"Well, why not? Don’t you like me? Do 
you find anything about me to object to?” 

"I think you are a very nice gentleman.” 

"You are evidently an intelligent girl.” 

"And besides, with such a fine automobile!” 

"So you think, Lisetta, that your mistress 
would be favorably impressed if she were told 
that a wealthy, likable, serious minded young 
man was disposed to make her a serious offer of 
marriage?” 

"If I should tell her, she would send me into 
the kitchen. Every time that I have tried to 
talk to her about love and lovers, she says to 
me: ‘Lisetta, go back to the kitchen!’ What 
you had better do, Signor, is to try to get on 
the right side of the Signorina’s papa and 
mamma. What’s more the moment that the 
Signora learns that you are rich . . 

"That is an interesting detail. But in order 
to get on the right side, it is necessary first to 
get acquainted.” 

"Oh, Signor,” exclaimed Lisetta, suddenly 
clapping her hand to her forehead, "if that is 
the only thing in the way, you could not have 
chosen a luckier moment.” 

"Be so good as to explain yourself, my child.” 

"Have you noticed a tiny, tiny cottage directly 
opposite our house? It is; so hidden by bushes 
that it can hardly be seen. It has four little 


130 


WANTED— A WIFE 


rooms which the Signora has managed to fit up 
out of her savings, so as to rent them furnished ; 
and it was only day before yesterday that they 
were left vacant. I won’t stop to tell you why ; 
all you need to know is that the Signora lost 
all the rent, to say nothing of the expenses. 
For two days she has been almost crazy, she 
has cried herself sick. Well then, if you pre- 
sent yourself and rent the cottage without ask- 
ing them to take off a single centesimo on the 
price, you will be welcomed like a prince.” 

Excellent idea! In that way I can see the 
Signorina wound up and working, as we say in 
Milan. 

“One question more, please: What sort of 
a man is the Counselor? He is not at all vio- 
lent, is he?” 

“He is the kindest sort of man,” replied Lis- 
etta. “He raises his voice sometimes, but no 
one minds that.” 

“If the thing goes through, your fortune is 
made, my girl, because — keep this in mind — 
our firm is run on the German system : We pay 
our people in proportion to what they do.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


MY FUTURE FATHER-IN-LAW 

1 WENT to the Counselor’s office to arrange 
about renting the cottage. I did not need to 
inquire whether he was in. His voice could be 
heard from the outer office. He was screaming 
like an eagle, a habit of which I had been 
warned beforehand. 

“Pray be seated,” said the clerk, a little dwarf 
whose hands contrasted blackly against the 
white paper on which he was writing. 

As a matter of fact whenever I hear people 
raising their voices rather high, it is my habit 
to take my leave. The office was very much in 
keeping with the hands of the clerk. Pray sit 
down? But where? The sofa was occupied by 
two stout individuals of the peasant type. His 
clients seemed to lack distinction. 

The declamatory noises grew in volume. 
One could hear the Counselor saying, “Dirty 
business, gentlemen, very dirty business! In 
my office everything is clean.” 

A pause. Then the voice continued: “By 
131 


132 


WANTED— A WIFE 


all means, go to whomever yon please! There 
are more lawyers than anything else!” 

“Just listen to him!” said the two peasants, 
filled with admiration. 

“No !” came in a new outburst from the other 
room. “There is no use in trying to grease my 
palm. And let me tell you something more, 
you ought to be thankful that I don’t report 
you. Be so kind as to get out of my office, get 
out !” 

The door was flung open and a rather pale 
looking gentleman came out. As he passed he 
noticed my distinguished personality and he 
said, “I brought him a case that involved thou- 
sands, and he tells me that it would dishonor 
him. Just as though thousand lire notes were 
issued with or without a guarantee of honor! 
War ends, but business goes on just the same.” 

It wasn’t bad reasoning, but I remained un- 
responsive. The peasants on the contrary stared 
at him wide-eyed: What was he driving at f 
The man passed out. 

The Counselor came to the door with a face 
like a storm cloud and said, “Come in, who* 
ever’s next!” The two peasants went in. My 
future father-in-law lacks polish. 

“Is your chief always like that with clients?” 
I asked the clerk. 

“Only when they get on his nerves,” and the 


WANTED— A WIFE 


133 


little hunchback amiably gave me the details of 
the quarrel: It was a question of salvaging a 
German firm that ought to have been seized by 
the authorities. 

“So your chief carries his patriotism even into 
his business?” 

“Let me tell you,” said the hunchback, “he 
is one who is working for the greater glory of 
Italy.” 

The peasants came out, and I went in. We 
sat down, with our faces on the same level and 
quite close to each other. He stared at me 
with a truculent air; but I conquered him with 
my habitual correct manner. I opened up my 
business with my accustomed polished and per- 
suasive phrases. His face cleared; indeed, my 
aspect of a perfect gentleman must have caused 
him some slight self-reproach. “But see here,” 
said he, “that cottage hasn’t all the conveniences 
that you may require. I should be sorry to have 
you complain later.” 

I made a gesture of complete reassurance. 
Then he asked me with some hesitation, “Have 
you any local references?” 

I might have mentioned the name of my firm ; 
but I merely said, 

“Signor Maioli.” 

“A dignified old imbecile,” said he. 

“I quite agree with you.” (But that is not 


134 


WANTED— A WIFE 


the way to speak of imbeciles, my good Counsel- 
or ! I always mention them with much re- 
spect. ) 

“Signor Cioecolani.” 

“Father or son?” 

“Son,” I replied. “Why, does it make any 
difference?” 

“Indeed it does : the father is a fine man and 
an admirable agriculturalist; the son is his 
greatest cross. Such sons are the heaviest dis- 
appointments that we parents can have.” 

“Have you, too, a son who is a poet?” 

“Fortunately, not. I have only a daughter.” 
I saw that he had something further to ask me ; 
and presently he asked it : 

“Excuse my asking: but is the cottage for 
yourself? You get my meaning?” 

I highly approved of his scruples. Morality 
above all things. “The cottage,” said I, “is for 
my mother, who at present is taking the cure 
at Salsomaggiore, and will afterwards have need 
of balsamic air and perfect quiet.” (Eventually 
I will bring my housekeeper, camouflaged as my 
maternal parent.) 

“For that purpose,” said the Counselor, “you 
could not have made a better choice.” 

We parted in perfect accord. He is a type 
very different from my own, but a fine man, 
just the same, the good Counselor. A healthy 


WANTED — A WIFE 


135 


looking, wiry person, with a musketeer’s mus- 
tache; altogether an impressive personality. I 
am much pleased; we shall conserve all the 
energy of both stocks for the heir. All right! 
Worthy Counselor, with the collaboration of 
your daughter, we will bring into the world a 
healthy, orderly, methodical heir, for the greater 
glory of Italy! 


CHAPTER XV 


ATTILA, KING OF THE HUNS 

E xtraordinary coincidence! As i left 
the Counselor’s office, whom should I meet 
on the Corso but the Contessina and her mother. 
She was ravishing! She was triumphal! She 
carried a slender walking stick, wore tall wav- 
ing plumes, and looked like an understudy of 
La Tosca. In the shadow of her splendor the 
poet Cioccolani in gleaming boots, trotted along, 
like a pet dog on a leash. Like myself he was 
arrayed in a new spring suit. 

It was the Contessina who first stopped me, 
to thank me for the marrons glaces, and for 
my lovely madrigal. “But please put your hat 
on.” 

I had remained with my head scrupulously 
uncovered, to the great admiration of the good 
provincials, and it was only at her command 
that I replaced my tall silk hat on my glossy 
and well brushed hair. 

“But is it possible that you two don’t know 
each other?” demanded the Contessina. 

136 


WANTED — A WIFE 


137 


“Suahly, suahly,” murmured the poet Cioc- 
colani. He habitually slurred his r’s. 

“No one would have guessed it said I. 

The Contessina apologized for him, explain- 
ing that he was subject to incredible absorp- 
tion. The poet was certainly a wonder at put- 
ting things over. 

“With your permission, Contessina, I must 
make you a second madrigal; your presence il- 
luminates these mediaeval streets with modern 
vibrations. The Town Council ought at least to 
give you a diploma as public benefactor.” At 
this compliment the Contessina burst into a 
series of “Ha-ha-ha’s !” so shrill that the people 
turned round to stare at her. But she continued 
to laugh to a finish. When she had finished, she 
said: 

“The Town Council? The socialistic Town 

Council here in P ?” If it dared, it would 

be my finish. Isn’t that so, Cioccolani?” 

“The fate of Jeanne d’Arc,” said the poet. 

“Je m’en fiche ” said the Contessina. 

The Countess Mother, who had caught a word 
here and there, insisted upon having my 
madrigal shouted into her ear, and highly ap- 
proved of it. She informed me personally that 
in the middle ages her ancestors walked the 

streets of P as if they were their feudal 

property. 


138 


WANTED— A WIFE 


We stopped at the accustomed pastry shop. 
The old Countess ordered a melange with a 
great deal of milk, a great deal of chocolate, 
a great deal of sugar, and a great many little 
cakes. The Contessina took an iced tea, very 
much frappe. The poet took nothing but an 
ice. 

I have sometimes employed a poet to write 
verses for my advertisements. He was a spec- 
tral man, who drank inflammable liquids. For 
that matter, it is notorious that poets subsist 
upon stimulants. I expressed this opinion, 
but it was not well received. 

“No, no, no, never liquors !” exclaimed the 
•Contessina. “Precisely the contrary. Espec- 
ially now when Cioccolani is in a state of grace 
and martyrdom, it would be fatal if he took 
stimulants.” 

I inquired if Signor Cioccolani was in bad 
health. 

“He is creating,” said the Contessina. I al- 
lowed myself to inquire what it was that he was 
creating. Cioccolani stiffened but did not an- 
swer. 

“A dramatic poem,” the Contessina answered 
for him. 

“In prose or in verse?” I inquired. The poet 
made a wry face of disgust. 


WANTED— A WIFE 139 

“Out of date! In lyric prose/ ” said the Con- 
tessina. 

“That’s fine,” said I. “And what is it to be 
called?” 

“The Attilaid, or Attila King of the Huns or 
the Racial Struggle ” 

“ J ust the same as it is to-day,” said I. 

“Listen to that!” exclaimed the Contessina. 
“Do you see, Cioccolani, even he understands!” 
(Even he means me!) “Tell him, tell him, 
Cioccolani, how many people are to be in the 
play.” 

“More than three hundred,” said Cioccolani. 
“Huns in leopard-skins, mitered bishops, Naza- 
renes with unshorn locks, the last of the Roman 
legionaries, the virgins of St. Genevieve. The 
tragedy unfolds in three great settings ; the first 
in Aquileia, the second on the fields of Cata- 
lonia, the third in a cathedral in Pannonia. 
Honestly, Donna Ghiselda, I shall be obliged to 
make at least one trip to Aquileia, to make 
some archaeological studies; but at present the 
military authorities raise so many difficult- 
ies. . . .” 

“Excuse me,” I allowed myself to observe, 
“but it strikes me that Attila King of the Huns 
is hardly a sympathetic character.” 

The poet made no answer; but the Contes- 


140 


WANTED— A WIFE 


sina said indignantly: “Attila not sympathetic? 
Ah! The magnificent genius of the race, the 
sublime purifier!” 

I took the liberty of admitting that I did not 
understand. 

“It is simple,” replied the Contessina. “At- 
tila is the Nemesis that purifies humanity by 
extermination.” 

“I am sorry, but I cannot agree with that 
view.” 

“War, my dear sir,” said Cioccolani, “is noth- 
ing else than the catharsis of purification, the 
holocaust offered to the obscure geniuses of 
the race.” Hereupon the poet suddenly changed 
his tone: “Waiter, waiter, come here! This is 
insufferable!” He had found something black 
in his water ice. “What is this in the water 
i'ce? Look at it!” And he exhibited the black 
object to the waiter, on the tip of his teaspoon. 

It was a fly! 

Debate as to whether it really was a fly. The 
fact that it was a fly was finally established. 
The Countess Mother, who by this time had con- 
sumed half the basket of cake, woke up and in- 
sisted upon seeing for herself: “Horrors! A 
fly!” 

There followed a dispute with the waiter as 
to whether the fly had fallen into the ice then 
and there, or whether it had got in during the 


WANTED— A WIFE 


141 


making. The Countess Mother insisted on tak- 
ing part in the discussion, and said myste- 
riously, “Nowadays the working class delib- 
erately put filth into the food that is* meant for 
the upper classes.” 

Then followed another dispute as to whether 
it was this waiter or some other who had 
brought the ice. “Do you imagine,” said 
Cioccolani, that I ever look in any of your faces, 
to see which waiter is serving me? But I did 
find a fly. Don’t you know, you idiot, how 
many millions of microbes are hidden under the 
wing of a fly?” 

There was much in what he said; but it 
occurred to me that the simplest solution was 
to order another water ice; and thus the danger 
from the fly was eliminated. 

“War,” resumed Cioccolani, thrusting the 
bowl of his spoon into the ice, “war is always 
a process of purification.” 

“That is all very fine. But with your per- 
mission, Signor Cioccolani, I allowed myself to 
observe, “I fear that this tragedy of yours can- 
not have a great success to-day. A few years 
ago Germany was in favor, and anything Ger- 
man went well. But nowadays! . . . Remem- 
ber that only this past winter, a satire against 
Germany was brought out, in Milan, with a title 
much resembling yours. . . .” (But what in the 


142 


WANTED— A WIFE 


world should make them both laugh in my face, 
while I was speaking?) 

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Cioccolani. 

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the Contessina. 

I felt as though they had laughed behind my 
back. When they had finished laughing, the 
Contessina explained : “But in Cioccolani’s play 
it is not Attila who conquers. The conqueror 
is Rome — that is, the genius of the Latin 
people.” 

“Ah, that alters the matter!” 

“The tragedy is immensely powerful,” the 
Contessina went on to explain. “You know, 
when Attila appeared before Aquileia, mounted 
on his horse, beneath whose hoofs no blade of 
grass could ever grow, things looked very 
serious.” 

“I can well believe it.” 

“The Christians, after a few centuries of 
pacifist preaching, had demobilized the army of 
Roman legions; but the coming of Attila had 
recalled the Pope to the realms of reality. Yet 
what was the Pope to do? Mobilize! But 
mobilize what, since there was no army left? 
Thereupon, according to a legend that is still 
popular to-day, he appealed to St. Peter and St. 
Paul. But what help could he expect St. Peter 
and St. Paul to give? The Christian legend 
says that St. Peter and St. Paul halted Attila. 


WANTED— A WIFE 


143 


That is absurd; Attila symbolizes the principle 
that is antithetic to Christ : the one explains the 
other, nothing more ! Attila, so long as he can, 
goes forward and not backward. You can 
perfectly understand that the day when Attila 
consents to become a monk, history stops like 
a clock that has run its course. Do you follow 
me, Signor Sconer?” 

In point of fact I was following her, though 
with some bewilderment. 

“No! It was not the Pope with his ideology,” 
continued the Contessina, “who stopped Attila; 
it was a sublime woman, St. Genevieve, who cleft 
the head of Attila with a club, and then Attila 
suddenly understood and halted.” 

“Which means,” said I, “that, in order to con- 
vince the Germans, there is only one method; to 
split their heads.” 

“Yes! yes! yes! Do you see, Cioccolani? 
Even he understands. Even the vulgar crowd 
will understand!” (“Even he” means me, every 
time. It was far from flattering.) 

“Tell me, Contessina,” I demanded, “did 
Attila really die like that?” 

“Attila really died in a shameless debauch in 
Pannonia; but Cioccolani is the first to derive 
from this commonplace occurrence a lofty sym- 
bolic significance.” 

Cioccolani was deeply moved, although he 


144 


WANTED — A WIFE 


said nothing. I offered him my congratulations. 

“Will your drama be brought out in Milan ?” 

“In Milan ?” repeated Cioccolani, breaking 
his silence. “My drama must be presented no- 
where but at Rome, the center of Latinity.” 

“It is a play,” said the Contessina, “that is 
destined to stir the soul of the Roman populace.” 

“I imagine,” I ventured to object, “that it 
would be a difficult thing to thrill the Romans.” 

“Art can do all things !” 

“Then there is nothing further to say.” 

At this point Cioccolani glanced at his wrist- 
w T atch and said: “It is eleven o’clock, mass has 
already begun. Are you coming, Basilissa ?” 

“No, I am sorry, but mamma is so feeble.” 
( She had emptied my whole basket of cake, and 
yet they call her feeble ! ) 

The poet left us. 

“Signor Cioccolani must be very religious,” I 
remarked. 

“To tell the truth,” replied the Contessina, 
“Cioccolani goes to hear high mass to get in- 
spiration for the third act of his ‘Attiliad.’ 
You see, Sconer, high mass contains lyric and 
dramatic elements of the highest order which re- 
act upon the crowd. The crowd does not under- 
stand, but it is moved by the force of its lyric 
suggestion. Cioccolani’s verses are like high 
mass : they are not verses, they are lyric bridges, 


WANTED — A WIFE 


145 


oyer which the crowd must pass. It must pass ! 
A panic frenzy, a Dionysiac fury takes posses- 
sion of the crowd, and it passes wheresoever the 
poet wills.” 

Here the Contessina paused, stared at me 
wild-eyed, and then continued: “Ah! You — hut 
why do I say you? Neither you nor any one 
can understand the inner tragedy that is evol- 
ving in the soul of Cioccolani and in mine as 
well!” 

I didn’t understand; and she must have seen 
that I didn’t because she asked me : 

“Have you read Cioccolani’s ‘Hermetic 
Songs’ ?” 

“I am sorry to say . . .” 

“It was his first lyric utterance. His brain 
is pure radium !” ( At a million a gram ! ) 

“Well, the ‘Hermetic Songs’ passed unnoticed 
in Italy. Italy ignores Cioccolani! But he is 
not ignored in Germany: in a Geschichte der 
jungen futuristichen italienischen Literatur Ci- 
occolani is enrolled among the most audacious 
warriors, die tapfersten Soldaten, who ever shat- 
tered the marble sepulcher of tradition. You can 
readily understand that if it were only for this 
Cioccolani owes a debt of gratitude to Ger- 
many !” 

“Excuse me, Contessina, I too have always 
been on excellent terms with the German busi- 


146 


WANTED— A WIFE 


ness houses, but I always think of them as a race 
of butchers.” 

“That is characteristic of all great peoples,” 
she replied indifferently. 

I watched her face with ever growing amaze- 
ment. As she talked she took her cup of tea in 
her hand ; greedily she poured its entire contents 
down her throat. I heard a gurgling. She 
passed the tip of her tongue across her lips. 
Tea, liquor, blood: I realized that this woman 
was avid of sensations. 

“Besides,” she resumed, “we like Germany, 
Cioccolani and I! we envy (of course, I trust 
you not to repeat this) their incomparable sol- 
diers, statesmen and scientists who have enrolled 
all the expatriots of the world in the service of 
the one and only fatherland — Germany! Well, 
we have sacrificed our personal sentiments, Cic- 
colani and I; we. are at the service of Italy, at 
the service of the present democracy which is a 
rule of incompetence. This is our tragedy ! But 
what else can we do? We are of the nobility, 
and it is our duty to sacrifice ourselves.” 

It is strange! But even with a methodical 
and orderly brain like mine, I began to have a 
sense of vertigo. I promptly started to take 
my leave. 

“Are yon returning to Milan?” she asked. 


WANTED— A WIFE 


147 


I told the Contessina that I had rented a small 
cottage for my mother. 

“ I will bring Cioceolani to call some evening, 
and will have him read his ‘Hermetic Songs’ to 
yon.” 

“May I ask, Contessina, what does the name, 
Basilissa, mean that I heard Cioceolani call 
you?” 

“It is a Byzantine word, and it means Queen/’ 

At last I am alone. I am trying to find my 
own soul. Oh, poor Ginetto Sconer! And to 
think that I came near marrying such an ed- 
ucated woman. I certainly should have ended 
up in a lunatic asylum. 


CHAPTER XVI 


DOGS AND CATS 

O N the twenty-sixth day of May I took pos- 
session of the cotttage. I found mother, 
daughter and serving maid still hard at work 
at putting things in order. My arrival, arrayed 
with all the care a gentleman owes himself, 
caused them some slight embarrassment. 

“We are sorry to have you find us like this,” 
said the mother, “but the last tenants left the 
house in a dreadful state !” Thereupon she 
proceeded to point out the disposition of the 
rooms; but what concerned me was her own 
disposition toward myself. I seemed to have 
made a good start. I will even say that if I 
had chosen to start a flirtation and had not 
been obliged to look upon her as my future 
mother-in-law, I would have wagered that hers 
was not one of the cases of definitely estab- 
lished conjugal fidelity. 

“This room,” she told me, “the largest one, 
we will reserve for your mother.” 

“Excellent idea,” said I. 

“And now, Oretta, my child, give the gentle- 

148 


WANTED — A WIFE 


149 


man the inventory. Are you sure you have 
entered everything very carefully? It is just 
to have everything quite business-like. ... You 
can verify it if you wish.” 

I was impressed by her business efficiency, but 
I held out my gloved hand in protest: “Quite 
unnecessary,” said I. Hereupon for the first 
time I heard the sound of Signorina Oretta’s 
voice : 

“Yes, mamma,” and she took from the pocket 
of her apron a folded sheet and handed it to me 
— it was headed “List of Household Objects Con- 
signed Today, May 26, to Signor ” 

“I had to leave out your name, because I didn’t 
know it.” 

“Cavaliere Ginetto Sconer.” 

She was quite mortified. 

My keen glance passed over the list of house- 
hold objects, glasses, plates, table service, to the 
list of her features: hair, nose, mouth, and so 
forth. But she did not sustain my examination 
very long; her eyes must be of the kind recom- 
mended by Dr. Pertusius, because all at once 
they became troubled, and $he said : 

“Please excuse it if it isn’t well written. . . 

“Oh, it’s admirably written: glasses, plates, 
table service.” 

Certainly it is not the vigorous handwriting 
affected by young women of the fashionable 


150 


WANTED— A WIFE 


world; it is a fine, dainty handwriting like her- 
self, and her voice too is like her, a gentle sing- 
song with a touch of provincialism. Her fea- 
tures are regular, almost too much so, because 
they have none of those decorative motives on 
which one’s desires may center. They are so 
even that one’s desire glides over and past them. 
There is nothing special about her eyes; they 
are simply just two eyes! Her figure shows 
no visible fullness; but that will improve in 
time, because the mother justifies the most prom- 
ising hopes. On the other hand, her hair is 
quite remarkable; it is a nubian black. If it 
was not drawn so tightly and smoothly back 
it could be dressed with extraordinary effective- 
ness. 

“Much must be done,” I found myself think- 
ing, “to raise you to the height of the occasion 
on the happy day when you too, Signorina 
Oretta, charming household object, shall be 
regularly consigned to the care of Cavalier 
Ginetto Sconer !”■ — but at that point in my medi- 
tations I became aware of something behind 
me nosing at my heels. 

“Bless me, what is that?” said I, making a 
backward leap. 

A huge head was taking liberties with my 
trousers. It was a dog of colossal proportions. 


WANTED — A WIFE 


151 


“Oh, he won’t hurt you, Signoi*. Leone, 
Leone, come here.” 

So the dog belonged to her! Really I never 
would have supposed that she was the kind of 
girl who would be fond of dogs! 

“Isn’t the animal rather dangerous?” 

“Oh, no, he is so good, so intelligent ! Leone, 
look at the gentleman! Remember, Leone, that 
you must always be very polite to him !” 

Signorina Oretta talked very prettily to her 
dog, and she smiled while she talked. But the 
fact remained that it was my alarm which first 
made her laugh. The beast did not impress me 
as being amiable. The unpleasant episode, 
however, afforded me an* opportunity to ob- 
serve that the young lady is possessed of a 
magnificent set of teeth, and when she laughs 
her eyes close and her mouth opens. 

Mother and daughter departed with the dog, 
Leone, following close at his mistress’ heels. 
The maid remained and accompanied me through 
a closer inspection of my new habitation. It 
is quite rural. Moreover the bathroom was in 
what I may call a distinctly primitive state. 

“You should know, my child,” said I, “that 
the bathroom is the distinguishing mark of a 
people’s standard of civilization. In my own 
apartment house in Milan I have two bathrooms 


152 


WANTED— A WIFE 


in each apartment ; one for the family, the other 
for the servants. . . .” But my remarks set 
the maid off in a fit of uncontrollable merri- 
ment: “As if it made any difference!” she said. 

“You must not laugh like that in the pres- 
ence of Ginetto Sconer!” 

But she went on laughing just the same. 
“You’d better be thankful you find the house 
looking as well as it does! Three whole days 
we’ve worked on it! I can tell you, bathroom 
or parlor, it was all the same thing to the last 
tenants ! And look at the garden, where we had 
planted so many pretty flowers, see the state 
they have left it in! There were four wild 
little devils of children who, just because there’s 
a war going on, ruined everything playing they 
were Germans!” 

I have slept in my new habitation. The bed 
is somewhat battered and the sheets rather 
coarse; but they give forth a freshly laundered 
odor that is reassuring. I kept one ear on the 
alert for mosquitos. For I contend that it is 
absolutely indecent that a man should serve as 
a cask of blood, at the disposal of a wretched 
little beast that comes and goes all night and 
circles round and round with his interminable 
buzzing! But having heard no mosquitos, I 
promptly fell asleep. 

The night passed tranquilly, but suddenly in 


WANTED— A WIFE 


153 


the morning, in the midst of the very best sleep 
of all, I was wakened by a cat. The miauling 
could not be described ; it had to be heard ! And 
then, lo and behold ! it came into the room with 
its tail straight up, a scrawny beast, with two 
wide eyes and mouth wide open, coming right at 
me ! This place is certainly a menagerie ! 
“Miow, miow!” — “What do you want? Go 
away !” Plague take it ! “Now it’s in my bed !” 

A dreadful idea occurred to me : perhaps the 
cat had gone mad !” I threw myself out of bed, 
amply armored in the bedding, and with my 
brass candlestick for a weapon. I succeeded in 
driving out the cat, and barricading the door, 
after which I went to sleep again. 

Later in the morning Lisetta arrived and said, 
“It’s such a sunny day!” Then I told her my 
adventure with the cat. 

“It’s a she-cat; a present from our last ten- 
ants. Poor thing! There was nothing left to 
eat in the house, and she was half starved.” 

“But you ought to have driven the wretched 
beast away. Deuce take it ! I’ll feed her on a 
strychine pill.” 

“Oh, never do that, Signore ! Don’t you know 
that it brings bad luck to kill a nursing cat?” 

“A nursing cat?” 

“It is the month of May, and the cat has had 
kittens. Here is your breakfast.” 


154 


WANTED— A WIFE 


Lisetta also had a cup. of broth for the cat. 

“Are you so* tender-hearted about animals?” 

“No, it’s the Signorina.” 

Lisetta was putting my room in order. It 
struck me that she was accustomed to a very 
summary sort of house-cleaning; mainly dry- 
cleaning, so to speak. Ah, my own furnish- 
ings, my polished parquet floors, odorous with 
turpentine ! 

“No, no. Let those things alone. I’ll put 
them in order myself. Don’t disturb them, they 
are my toilet articles.” 

“What a lot of them !” she exclaimed. “What 
is the little box for?” 

“Nail-polish.” 

“And what is this thing?” 

“That is the polisher. The care of the nails,” 
I said meaningly, “is a mark of personal respect- 
ability.” 

“Oh, look at the pretty little scissors!” 

“Let them alone ! They wouldn’t do for your 
hands.” 

All at once she discovered the use of the 
atomizer, and began to work the bulb with 
much enjoyment: “How nice it smells!” 

“Help yourself, my good girl. But before 
using perfumes, the daily ablutions are indis- 
pensible. So instead of examining my toilet 


WANTED— A WIFE 


155 


articles, supposing you bring me some water.” 

“There’s the bowl and pitcher.” 

“I want more water, a great deal more water.” 

“That means you want to take a bath?” 

“If I can manage it : a la, guerre comme a la 
guerre .” You, Lisetta — and you are probably 
not alone — cannot imagine the joy of a bath. 
A friend of mine who, for the sake of economy, 
had to spend several weeks at Regina Coeli, 
told me confidentially that his greatest pri- 
vation had been his inability to take his morn- 
ing bath. 

Lisetta returned after some delay, bearing 
two pails filled to the brim. 

“The water is in the bottom of the well, and 
the well is deep,” she said. 

“Ah, poor Lisetta ! But let us speak of 
other things. Have you any news to give me 
as to the effect that my personality produced 
yesterday ?” 

Lisetta assured me that I had made a very 
deep impression, because the Signorina had 
ordered her to be extra careful in cleaning up. 

“And did she say nothing in particular?” 

“She said, ‘when you go to the Signore’s cot- 
tage, put on your white apron.’ ” 

“Do you see, Lisetta? Your young mistress 
has forestalled what I was going to tell you. 
Take my word for it; in a pretty little white 


156 


WANTED — A WIFE 


apron with your hair somewhat tidied up, and 
surmounted by a white cap; with short sleeves 
and a liberal application of soap to your arms 
and hands, you would produce an entirely dif- 
ferent effect.” 

“A servant’s livery?” exclaimed Lisetta. “Ah, 
never !” 

“Sheer prejudice, my child. Who is there 
who doesn’t wear some sort of livery? Even I 
sometimes have to wear an evening coat: the 
simplest of garments, which puts me on a level 
with a minister, with the Pope, with the King 
or with any one else.” 

She departed at last, and I stood before the 
mirror putting the last touches to my toilet, and 
clad in simple garb of sane democracy, when 
the sound of a voice made me jump. It was 
Lisetta again. Really she was becoming a 
nuisance. 

“Ah, what an extraordinary man you are, 
Signore !” 

“Why?” 

“Because I never saw any one tie a cravat 
so well. You take hold of it and just give it 
two or three very careful little twists, this way 
and that, exactly as though you were dressing 
a baby.” 

“The way one wears a cravat is the true hall- 
mark of distinction. Have you ever seen era- 


WANTED— A WIFE 


157 


vats like these? Without a lining, my* dear girl, 
and all pure silk. The pure silk cravat has an 
atmosphere of its own. And have you ever seen 
such shirts as these ?” 

“Ah, Signor! Even your shirts are all silk! 
And are these studs real diamonds? Never in 
my life have I seen a gentleman like you!” 


CHAPTER XVII 


AND OTHER ANIMALS 

T HE Counselor came to see me, to find out 
if I had need of anything. We recipro- 
cally embarrassed each other: I with my habit- 
ual composure, and he with that musketeer’s 
mustache. He was amazed at seeing that I 
had already received my morning’s mail, when 
he himself was constantly making complaints. 

“Complaints are no good,” said I. “Try the 
Turkish system of a little bakshish on the post 
office, and you will be punctually served.” 

We passed on to an inspection of the house. 
“Look at the state they have left this poor 
house in !” he exclaimed. “The kitchen will cer- 
tainly have to have a new coat of white-wash.” 

He told me the details of the painful story: 
The tenants who preceded me had departed at 
night, noiselessly and stealthily, like an Arab 
camp that folds its tent, and naturally without 
paying. 

“Too bad,” said I. 

He went on to tell me that the cottage had 

158 


WANTED — A WIFE 159 

been rented at a reduced price in view of the 
family’s financial circumstances. 

“Worse yet!” I repeated. 

“I would never have thought it of them.” 

“Worst of all !” said I. He gazed at me in be- 
wilderment. But I also was bewildered. What 
was the use of being a lawyer, and having a 
mustache like a musketeer, if one didn’t know 
that offering concessions was equivalent to mak- 
ing enemies? My “too bad!” was intended to 
say all this. I contented myself with asking if 
by good luck his own place contained a garage 
for my automobile. 

“You have an automobile?” 

“Of course.” It was curious and it was 
flattering : for these small-town folk, to hear me 
say “my automobile” was equivalent to hearing 
me say “I am a Count.” And later, when the 
pebbles of the driveway crunched under the tires 
of my limousine, I was aware that I had made 
a profound impression. 

The Counselor had made hot haste to clear 
out a small coach house, into which my auto- 
mobile barely squeezed its way. I saw the 
Signora’s eyes fairly protrude, while the corners 
of her mouth went down; and the Counselor 
said : “By thunder !” 

Even the Signorina Oretta opened her eyes 
at the automobile. “Isn’t it beautiful, papa?” 


160 


WANTED — A WIFE 


“Eighteen to twenty-four horse-power, Signo- 
rina,” said I, “new model, automatic starter, 
electric lighting.” 

The Signora asked me how I had slept. I 
was on the point of answering, “The bed is 
dreadfully hard,” but instead I substituted the 
story of the cat. 

“Think of it,” said the Counselor, “they took 
everything else away with them, and left us 
their cats.” 

“But Counselor,” I suggested, “you can avail 
yourself of Article 1950 of the Code, or some- 
thing of the sort.” 

“Splendid!” said the Signora emphatically. 
“Do you see that Signor Sconer tells you the 
same thing? The wretches! After all that 
we had done for them, even to putting coal in 
the kitchen ! And the amount of dam- 
age they did ! The bed-springs were brand 
new. And what do you suppose they did to 
them? The children jumped up and down on 
them.” 

Here Signorina Oretta interrupted, “But, 
papa, he wrote to tell you he was going to 
pay.” 

“I am sorry, Signorina,” said I, “but ‘going 
to pay’ isn’t enough. Any one can say ‘I am 
going to pay.’ What one should say is ‘I pay.’ 
Signorina.” 


WANTED — A WIFE 


161 


“Do you hear, daughter,” said mamma, “how 
sensibly the Signore speaks?” 

I had spoken with my most amiable smile; 
nevertheless, I had caused embarrassment. 
Signorina Oretta was so confused that she did 
not answer. 

The Signora and I are on the best of terms, 
better than ever after I had paid the rent 
promptly and without discussion. It was she 
who did the talking. She became confidential 
with me. The socialistic town government is 
a nightmare to her, an ogre that is devouring 
her home, slowly consuming it with increased 
taxes. 

“Signora,” I replied, “there is only one 
remedy. While they undermine on their side 
let us undermine on ours.” 

She failed to understand my elegantly turned 
phrase. She merely said that she would have 
my kitchen white-washed. 

It is idyllic! The family itself is idyllic; I 
even find myself becoming idyllic. They dine 
during the summer season under the pergola. 
When evening comes they light a large acety- 
lene lamp. The Signorina does the serving, 
brings the platters, rises, comes and goes, and 
finds the matches, those confounded matches 
that the Counselor never remembers where he 
put. 


162 


WANTED— A WIFE 


They often invite me to take coffee with them. 
The Signorina herself hands me the coffee to- 
gether with one of their best napkins. 

“Oh, what fine embroidery! Some of your 
own work, I will wager.” 

“On the contrary, I did them,” said the Lady 
of the Caramels. 

I expressed the greatest admiration. A fine 
family, but very simple in their ways. 

The other day we visited the orchard and 
garden with the dog, Leone, closing the line of 
march. Pears and peaches are the Signora’s 
chief ambition. But worms within and thieves 
without constitute a perennial menace, like the 
socialistic government. 

“Nothing is safe any longer ! Here are these 
peaches that are already nearly ripe in June, 
see how big they are, and so good!” She has 
even got them all counted ! “But Leone is 
ready to take care of the thieves.” 

I spoke of Switzerland where peaches can 
hang over the heads of the passers-by without 
any one touching them. 

“That must be a worth-while country! But 
around here no one has any respect for other 
people’s things!” 

We also stopped to visit the pig, whose ac- 
quaintance I had already made. The Signora 
told me, “Every year we kill a pig for Christ- 


WANTED— A WIFE 


163 


mas, because, as you will understand, if every- 
thing had to be bought at the shop there would 
be no end to it, with ham to-day selling at 90 
centesimi the hecto. Just think of it! We 
make all our sausages at home, salamini, cic - 
cioli, finocchiate and budino dolce, fresh blood 
pudding.” 

The pig, half pink and half white, and still 
in the bloom of youth, waddled forth boldly, un- 
aware of the things that were being said regard- 
ing him. The dog sniffed at him with good- 
natured tolerance. 

“It is an English hog, a Yorkshire,” said the 
Counselor. 

“Fine, isn’t he?” said the Signora, “Look at 
those hams!” 

It dawned upon me that there was a certain 
kinship pervading the whole menagerie. I 
looked again at Oretta, who eats ciccioli and 
salamini. Perhaps this marriage would be a 
mesalliance. 

It is only the dog, Leone, who is not idyllic, 
worse than that, he is unendurable. Every 
time that I enter the gate of the Counselor’s 
home, he acts as though he saw me for the first 
time; he bars my path with tremendous leaps 
and with expressions of evil augury. Signorina 
Oretta promptly runs out. “Don’t be afraid, 
Signor Cavaliere. He is only playing. Haven’t 


164 


WANTED— A WIFE 


I told you, big stupid, that the Signore is a 
friend?” 

“I think, Signorina,” I suggested, “that it 
would be just as well to repeat the introduction. 
He has a forbidding expression.” 

“He is so intelligent ! Leone, quick, give your 
paw to the Signore.” 

But the beast refuses. 

“Isn’t he obstinate?” 

“That is natural,” says the Counselor, smil- 
ing. “He is a shepherd dog of pure German 
Freed.” 

“Papa, I beg of you! You know I hate that! 
You are an Italian dog, aren’t you Leone?” 

The dog Leone shakes his head sportively, 
insisting on his nationality. Signorina Oretta 
engages in a hand-to-hand struggle with the 
beast. She is very charming. 

The dog is finally vanquished and subsides, 
while I look on. Signorina Oretta’s pretty 
head, with the hair somewhat dishevelled, seems 
to me more seductive than ever; her eyes shine 
unexpectedly, as though a flame were suddenly 
kindled within them. 

“My daughter! My little flower of spring!” 
said the Counselor, half sighing. 

“Mine too,” thought I. 

I am discovering decorative motives in 
Signorina Oretta herself. Her little nose rests 


WANTED— A WIFE 


165 


upon the corbels of two dainty traceries. On 
her nose, quite high up is a mole, which is not 
noticed at first and is not a blemish, being partly 
hidden by the eyebrow. Her cheeks are covered 
with a fine down, like a peach. Her mouth is 
traced in strong color, and when she smiles, 
two saucy little quirks form at the corners. 
The aperture of the lips does not completely 
close; they part sufficiently to show the pretty 
rows of teeth. Between those half parted lips 
I have never caught so much as a glimpse of the 
tip of her tongue. But I realize that from them 
must always come that gentle voice always 
uttering very charming but rather stupid things. 
However, she pleases me, and I declare myself 
satisfied. 

The other morning I was leaving early for 
Milan, and just as I stepped into the automobile, 
the Signorina asked me how my mother was. 

“In the best of health, Signorina. Would 
you like to come along to Milan ?” 

“Yes, if papa and mamma could go too.” 

Get aboard little children, there is room for 
plenty more. She is certainly a dear girl ! 
Purity, whatever Lionello says, is an article 
that will always take. 

I am back in my apartment in Milan. Curi- 
ous! But it seems to me deserted. It gives 
the impression of being covered with dust, — 


166 


WANTED— A WIFE 


an impossible occurrence, and rank injustice to 
my housekeeper. All the same, it gives me a 
queer sensation. . . . No, it is not dust; it is 
the lack of sunshine. And yet we have sunshine 
in Milan ! But presently by an effort of imagina- 
tion I transplant hither Signorina Oretta, now 
become Signora Oretta, and at once it seems to 
me as though a fountain of champagne was 
scattering its delicious effervescence about me. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


ORETTA OR GHISELDA? 

D O I really like little Signorina Oretta? 

That is a question which I cannot solve 
with the precision that belongs to my system. 
I am a moral man. Little Oretta is a fruit 
ripening on the tree of life. As part of my rural 
idyl I find delight in contemplating her. But 
now that I am back in Milan, she no longer 
seems quite what I want. The idea of poor 
Signorina Oretta hemmed in by the confines of 
an inner court yard, makes me rather uncomfort- 
able. Go slow, Ginetto, before you decide to 
marry her. No doubt, if I install Signorina 
Oretta in my apartment, I shall transport the 
rural idyl to Milan. And that is hygienic. 
How charmingly she embraced that big brute 
of a dog back yonder! When is she going to 
embrace me just as charmingly here? And 
those pretty eyes of hers ! Serene as two Alpine 
lakes. The clouds of perturbing desires have 
not yet cast their shadows upon that serenity. 
She is a dear girl. I should very much like to 
kiss her. I can picture her, installed here, as 
my wife, tranquil as a little lamb. I arrive 
167 


168 


WANTED— A WIFE 


home from my office, approach softly, on tiptoe, 
and barely brush the back of her neck with the 
lightest of kisses. “Ginetto, is that you?” — 
“Yes, it is I.” And she will pay me back with 
the chastest of kisses. Yet I fear that, at least 
just at first, she will feel rather out of place in 
my drawing room. I cannot picture Oretta 
to myself in a reception toilet. Oretta is a 
modest little craft, meant only to coast along 
the shore. But lo and behold! Along comes 
the Contessina Ghiselda, like a big battle ship, 
and scuttles my modest little coasting craft. 
I shall never marry her, but it is none the less 
true that that lady appeals to my imagination. 
It is not only Signorina Oretta, but all the other 
women who are scuttled when the Contessina 
crosses their wake. 

I don’t wish to imply that the Contessina 
neglects to bathe; but there is no doubt that 
she is different from other fashionable women. 
What perfume does she use? That I don’t know. 
And yet I think that I understand. . . . The 
perfume of nature! Other fashionable women 
are too much bathed, too much perfumed and 
powdered — I say this, even against my own 
interests! They are like certain cutlets that 
are so well prepared that no one can tell what 
kind of meat they are ! 

I also picture the Contessina Ghiselda in my 


WANTED— A WIFE 


169 


drawing room, and she too fails to fit in, though 
for a different reason. And then I ask myself, 
supposing she should expend in love the enthu- 
siasm that she now expends on literature, where 
would it lead us to? “Faster! faster!” as she 
said that day when she waved her bunch of 
roses like a whip. We should probably land up 
in Yega! No, no! I will marry Oretta, little 
country song-bird, tender idyl transported to 
Milan. Sing, Oretta, to your Ginetto, with your 
sweet, flute-like voice, your quaint, old-fashioned 
song ! 

An idea suddenly flashed upon me. I rang, 
and Desdemona appeared. 

“Desdemona,” said I, “even if you are not a 
top-notch chef, at least you have good taste. If 
I should arrive home, some day with a number of 
strangers, I want you to prepare a dinner with 
all the side-shows and rules. I am especially 
particular about the glasses and the silver jar- 
diniere full of flowers. The concierge must put 
on his evening coat and gloves and wait on the 
table. But it must all have the air of being 
customary, the every-day routine.” 

I have made up my mind. I will take the 
whole family on board my limousine and trans- 
port them to Milan, set the Signorina Oretta in 
the center of my drawing room and, so to speak, 
try her out. Then I can see how well she fits in. 


CHAPTER XIX 


MY MOTHER-IN-LA W^S OPINIONS 

T HE first thing I did, upon returning to 

P was to divulge to the Counselor my 

program for a fine trip to Milan by automobile. 
“Signorina Oretta doesn’t know Milan at all, 
does she?” I inquired. “That is all wrong, you 
know !” 

Papa was enthusiastic over the prospect of an 
automobile trip. But Oretta said they would 
have to consult mamma. 

“By all means, let us consult mamma. 

We proceeded to consult mamma; but here 
we encountered an opposition that I would 
never have suspected. 

“To Milan? What is there for us to do in 
Milan?” 

“What is there to do in Milan? Why, see 
Milan, of course!” 

“What, take my child around Milan, and let 
her see those painted women, who look like the 
masks they used to show in the shop windows, 
at Carnival time? The last time I was in 
Milan, I told my husband, ‘Let’s get away from 
170 


WANTED— A WIFE 


171 


here, for I begin to feel like a disreputable 
woman myself.” 

I praised her high moral attitude, but argued 
that it was a question of obtaining the quintes: 
sence, the super refinement of beauty ; that it was 
a democratic conception, after all : Equal 
beauty for all women! “Believe me, Signora, 
that underneath ail the quintessence and super- 
refinement, there is a great deal of solid respect- 
ability.” 

“That may be,” returned the Lady of the Car- 
amels, “but when a woman paints her face, she 
always has some ulterior purpose! When I 
was young, I was not such a bad looking woman, 
but just as true as that my husband fell in love 
with me, I never was guilty of touching up my 
face.” 

“Signora,” said I gravely, “you not only were, 
but still are, a very beautiful woman !” 

She was flattered, but I could not persuade 
her. 

“And to see. young girls,” she continued, 
“girls of the age of my Oretta all dolled up, and 
with their faces so made-up that there is no 
telling whether they are girls or what they are ! 
And with skirts that show their legs all the way 
up !” 

“They are very pretty,” said I. 

“They are indecent!” said she. 


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WANTED— A WIFE 


“Signora,” said I, “if you frequent the 
drawing rooms of our best society, you will 
find that the hostess permits a liberal display 
of the chief attractions of the gentle sex. It is 
only normal.” 

“That is because you men are all perverted.” 

The Counselor said nothing, but merely 
pulled at his mustache. Oretta preserved a de- 
corous silence. I felt that it would be interest- 
ing to know whether the worthy Counselor 
shared my opinion or that of his wife. 

“Counselor,” said I, “defend our cause.” 

“Well, really” . . . began the Counselor. 

“No, no, no!” interrupted Madam Caramel. 
After those three no’s it can readily be under- 
stood that a yes would not have been permissi- 
ble. 


CHAPTER XX 


I GAIN A MORE INTIMATE FOOTING 

* 6 'OUT for your part, Signorina,” I suggested, 
AJ “you would have been very glad to go to 
Milan. Paris in minature — see something of the 
world at large. . . . ” 

“But mamma said no.” 

“Of course, always obey papa and mamma. 
Mamma, however, exaggerates; she is too in- 
tolerant toward the pretty ladies of Milan. 
Your mother, if I may say so, does not make 
allowance for the rights of beauty.” 

I proceeded to explain, and delivered myself 
of the following admirable discourse : “Can you 
imagine, Signorina, what the world would be 
like if deprived of the sight of beauty. And 
what is beauty? It is the presence of the gentle 
sex. Hence one can understand why beauty 
should be cultivated and even improved and re- 
fined. For that matter, the process of refining 
is applied to all the products of nature. Let me 
take advantage of an example that you yourself 
afford.” 

Signorina Oretta was sitting under the per- 

173 


174 


WANTED— A WIFE 


gola, knitting a coarse stocking on coarse needles 
from a ball of coarse yarn. 

“If I should use this ordinary stocking/’ I 
continued persuasively, “to cover a dainty little 
foot — ” I lifted up the hideous stocking as I 
spoke — “by doing so I would extinguish the 
flame of beauty.” 

The Signorina turned and looked at me. Her 
face reminded me of one of those terracotta 
images of the Madonna. 

“The flame of beauty, Signorina, should not be 
hidden under a bushel, it should be allowed to 
shine openly. I do not wish to exaggerate, like 
some of our novelists, who overemphasize the im- 
portance of all the least details of the dessous 
worn by the fair sex. . . 

She never stirred an eyelash. There are some 
young women who if they heard a speech like 
that, would quiver like the sensitive coat of a 
race horse. 

Nothing of the kind. Oretta raised her eyes 
as leisurely as the rising of the sluggish August 
moon. I mentioned the names of Lionello and 
a number of other writers who produced books 
dealing with love, for which Heaven bless them ! 
This girl is totally ignorant of literature. She 
said she would like to go to the theater to hear 
serious plays. 


WANTED — A WIFE 


175 


“But no one goes to the theater nowadays,” 
said I, “to hear serious plays.” 

“Then why do they go to the theater?” 

“For many other reasons : to see how the act- 
resses are dressed . . 

The click-click of the knitting was resumed. 
Perhaps it is the effect of that coarse gray 
wool, but it is a fact that those hands do not 
inspire the slightest desire to kiss them. I con- 
tinued : 

“I am really disappointed that your mother 
declined my invitation in such an unlooked-for 
manner. I should have been very proud of a 
chance to show you my house. It is in rococo 
style ; much too fine for me ; but such it is.” 

I proceeded to describe my modest apartment. 
“Alas, much too large for me, since I live alone. 
When one eats one’s meals all alone, believe me, 
Signorina, one is beset with melancholy 
thoughts.” 

“But I thought that you lived with your 
mother?” 

“Even so, that is not enough to fill the void 
in a tender heart.” 

I didn’t get a rise. The click-click of the 
needles kept steadily on. It was depressing. 
That girl must have a heart sheathed in India 
rubber. 


176 


WANTED— A WIFE 


What the girl lacks is style. She is not even 
a la nature , like Sbrindolo , the latest of Lion- 
ello’s creations, which has had a prodigious 
success: Sbrindolo, wild flower of the fields, a 
girl with all the exuberance of a primitive soul. 
Naturally she dies, because Lionello is the great 
destroyer of all his creations. 

It would be useless for me to describe to Sig- 
norina Oretta this sensational creation of 
Sbrindolo. The dog Leone, papa, mamma, : these 
alone cause her emotion. She is like the ante- 
room of the Counsellor’s office: no style, but 
plaster fruits under a glass bell. 

But who ever wants to eat plaster fruit? The 
glass bell is superfluous, Madam Caramel. Your 
daughter is a good girl, oh, very, very good. 
That is all right for you, but for myself I need 
a little something more. Goodness is like the 
long chemise of St. Veronica; do you get me, 
Signorina? 

Some days, Papa, the Counselor, comes home 
with the moon in the wrong quarter; he has it 
in for the judges, his fellow lawyers, the trial 
court, the Court of Appeals, the whole wretched 
business. I am rather amused. All wrong, 
quite wrong, Counselor! When a lawyer finds 
fault with the judges, it means that he is not 
making enough money. 

“If my husband were not so conscientious,” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


177 


Madam Caramel tells me, “we too would have 
been riding around in our own automobile, for 
a long time back !” 

“But so long as we three are content,” says 
Signorina Oretta, isn’t that enough, mamma?” 

Hereupon the Counselor catches her up, hugs 
her close, and the dog Leone forms a frame-work 
of joyous gambols around them. 

I seem to have discovered in Signorina Oretta 
an emotion of an entirely different sort, having 
nothing to do with papa or mamma or the dog, 
Leone. I made haste to profit by it. 

The Signorina was attentively studying an 
illustrated paper in which there was a fashion 
plate showing a “Manteau with fowrrures, Paris 
model.” 

“Beautiful thing, isn’t it, Signorina? I my- 
self belong to a committee in Milan for deciding 
upon Italian fashions. It is patriotic, but 
nothing will come of it. Paris is Paris.” 

Strange! My explanations did not interest 
her. The Counselor, who was present, in- 
quired : 

“What is that? Furs for women when we are 
in the middle of summer?” 

“All the same, it’s the height of fashion,” 
said I. “Probably the ladies wish to suffer 
from the heat, just as the soldiers do in the 


178 


WANTED— A WIFE 


trenches; probably this winter the nude will 
be popular, so that they can suffer equally from 
the cold.” 

Neither the Counselor nor the Signorina 
even smiled. Since they don’t appreciate my 
wit, thought I, let us be serious : 

“My dear sir, it is a fact that the great fur 
houses of Paris have never placed so many con- 
tracts as this year; our dressmakers and mod- 
istes have imported in robes and m&nteaux close 
cm to fifteen million!” 

“And our lire,” said the Counselor, “loses 
thirty-six per cent, on the exchange.” 

“It is going to lose still more,” said I. 

“And yet we are Allies ;” said he. 

“You see, Counselor, that in business such 
relations are automatic. ...” 

But our discussion was interrupted by an ex- 
clamation from Signorina Oretta. “Oh, how 
infamous! how are they allowed to print such 
papers?” 

What w T as the matter? We looked: on one 
page w r as the manteau with fourrures, Paris 
model, and on the opposite page, were a few 
corpses of soldiers. Her pupils were dilated. 

“But when is this horrible war going to end?” 

“Signorina,” I replied, “it will take some time 
yet. There are so many people who are getting 
rich out of it. Take, for example, the matter of 


WANTED— A WIFE 


179 


dress snappers: The Piazza at Milan, which 
supplies Italy, suddenly found itself short of 
them. They formerly came from Germany. A 
friend of mine succeeded in importing a huge 
consignment from Switzerland, and has cleared 
a big profit. And dress snappers, as you know, 
are a small item. Imagine how it is with bigger 
things . . .” 

She was staring at me as though the war 
was all my fault. She turned to papa and said : 

“They can all go straight to Hell 

Papa was left absolutely speechless. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE READING OF THE HERMETIC 80NCS 

E Contessina came with the poet Ciocco- 



X lani to call upon me. This time he remem- 
bered who I was and said, “Good afternoon, 
dear Sconer.” 

“Cavaliere Sconer, if yon please. I allow only 
my lady friends to call me ‘dear Sconer/ ” (I 
don’t remember that we have ever so much as 
eaten spaghetti or beans together. Good after- 
noon? In point of fact it was already evening.) 

“Delicious, delicious !” exclaims the Con- 
tessina, “this chalet, buried in verdure. Come 
and look, Cioccolani. Oh, however did you dis- 
cover it, Sconer?” 

“I beg of you, Contessina,” said I, “don’t go 
in. Let us stay outside, here in the garden.” 

“Are you hiding some mystery? Have you 
some woodland nymph imprisoned in your castle, 
Sconer?” 

“Contessina, what a thing to hear you say! 
How would it be possible with your image 
stamped upon my heart?” 


180 


WANTED — A WIFE 181 

“You strike me as being a good deal of a 
lady-killer !” 

“Ob, Contessina !” 

“But for all I know, you may be a model of 
virtue !” 

Hereupon the Contessina summoned her body- 
guard to decide whether I was a lady-killer or a 
model of virtue. But all at once she called upon 
him for an entirely different matter: 

“Cioccolani, Cioccolani, come here, come here ! 
Ah, superb!” 

Cioccolani and the Contessina ascended to the 
top of the slope. And I heard her saying: 

“There, there, on the other side, that sabre 
stroke of electric green light! See how the cy- 
press trees down yonder are flaming like candel- 
abra gone mad! See that cloud breaking to 
pieces : there, there it goes ! The towers are f ail- 
ing, and the golden battlements ! Horses in 
frenzied flight, Unicorns, Chimaeras!” 

“The Demogorgon!” he replied. 

What was happening? Only what occurs 
every day — the sun was setting. 

She was gesticulating and shouting like the 
valkyrs in productions of German operas at La 
Scala. He stood motionless, looking like Napo* 
leon witnessing a battle. 

I profited by the occasion to slip over to the 
Counselor’s house. “Lisetta,” said I, “do me 


182 


WANTED— A WIFE 


a favor quickly; I have some guests. Ask the 
Signora if she has anything that I can serve 
them, no matter what, coffee, rosolio, or ver- 
mouth.” 

I wanted to laugh ; I felt as though I had been 
racing to call the fire brigade to come and put 
out the conflagration discovered by the Con- 
tessina. 

“But where have you been?” she asked upon 
my return. “You have lost a magnificent spec- 
tacle : the sun agonizing in red flames, and suffo- 
cating in sobs.” 

“We shall see it back again to-morrow,” said I. 

“We have come,” said the Contessina, “to 
read you the Hermetic Songs. You remember 
don’t you?” 

I had really forgotten but I replied: “Re- 
member? Perfectly! Excellent idea! But 
why ‘hermetic,’ if I may ask ?” 

“Because, apparently, they can’t be under- 
stood.” 

“Ah, quite so.” 

“They can’t be understood,” corrected Ciocco- 
lani, “in the sense of traditional speech. But 
they convey a natural cosmic sense, even to the 
most idiotic hearers.” 

“So you want to find out what effect your 
verses will make on an idiotic hearer? Go 


WANTED — A WIFE 


183 


ahead, my dear fellow, but don’t get mixed up. 
You are certainly something unique.” 

He was not in the least mixed up : “ ‘Idiotic’ 
means,” he said gravely, “in its primitive sense, 
a person who has not been initiated.” 

“It may mean that for you, but to me it means 
plain ‘stupid.’ But you are talking of poetry 
which is something I don’t pretend to under- 
stand.” 

“See here, Sconer,” the Contessina hastened to 
say, “it is like the high mass I was telling you 
of. You will admit, Sconer, that the public does 
not understand the words of the ritual, but it 
succumbs to their influence.” 

The incident was closed. 

Lisetta arrived bringing a fine layout: nap- 
kins, yellow rosolio, tea cakes and . . . cara- 
mels. The Contessina draped herself upon a rus- 
tic chair. 

The reading began. How long did it last? 
I don’t know, but certainly a very long time. I 
remember that Lisetta presently brought two 
garden lanterns ; at first their two slender 
flames gave no light at all, for twilight still 
lingered ; then they flared up and burned rapidly. 

Considerable time must have gone by. At 
first I suspected they were trying to play a trick 
upon me, for I did not understand one word. 


184 


WANTED— A WIFE 


But no, they were quite serious. Then it was 
that I began to laugh inwardly. 

She was now sitting motionless as a statue ; he 
was standing up with the book in his hand, and 
was gesticulating and shrilling forth in his high 
pitched voice : I am a meteor launched into the 
infinite. The crickets, little saws cutting facets 
upon the enormous blackness of crystalline 
night ; the crickets, musical tendons stretched 
desperately in the effort to hold in bounds the 
over-flowing night. 

This was poetry, but the thought that occurred 
to me was : “If I had to write like that to my cus- 
tomers, they would suspend payments on their 
contracts,” and thereupon I felt a great com- 
passion for poor Cioccolani. 

“Pay attention/’ the Contessina admonished, 
touching me. It made me jump. “The specters 
are arriving!” 

“ Gogo , gogogo, Orin, Orin!” read Cioccolani. 
“The spectres are arriving with a rush ! Here 
come the skeletons clacking their castanets: 
gogogo! And he made a noise that reminded 
me of the cat the other morning. “We are 
insatiate of pleasure, gogogo! Life has not 
given us pleasure! Gogogo !” Poor young man! 

Perhaps he was going to read the whole book ! 
The Contessina was sitting motionless, and so 
was I; but I was watching the Contessina. 


WANTED — A WIFE 


185 


Those charming curves, of which the Signorina 
Oretta is as yet deprived, rose and fell slowly 
as the Contessina breathed. Even if a full fig- 
ure is not fashionable, it is always attractive. 
Gog ogo! I too was beginning to shudder. Every 
now and again her ankles slipped into view; 
and I felt myself slipping too. 

“Gogo, gogogo . . . Orin !” he continued. 
And she said to me, 

“Do you get the rhythm, the anapests, the 
octaves?” 

But in an interval between the gogogo’s, I 
heard the sound of suppressed laughter. I 
slipped away for a moment. Behind the cottage 
I found Lisetta, choking with laughter. 

“Will you be good enough to run on imme- 
diately !” 

The session was over. It was moonlight. 
Cioccolani wiped his perspiring brow. I 
realized that the following silence was becoming 
embarrassing. 

“Very effective ...” I began. 

“Ah ?” exclaimed the Contessina, as if roused 
from a dream. “It delights me, Sconer, to 
hear you say that. It is an absolutely pure 
lyric. As yet you have got merely a foretaste; 
but on a second reading you will feel the full dy- 
namism of the ultra-sensitive Pan.” 


186 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“Quite so,” said I. Then there was just 
silence and moonlight. For my part, the only 
“lyric” was the Contessina, and I felt her full 
dynamism already. 

“And the Attiliad, Signor Cioccolani,” I 
inquired, “is it like this?” 

“It is finer,” said the Contessina. 

“The other poets,” declaimed Cioccolani, 
“have molded modest images but we have 
breathed our breath of life into the images 
themselves. That was not enough! That was 
humanity. We wish to surpass humanity. 
And I have the honor, my dear sir,” he con- 
cluded tragically, “to be called an imbecile in 
my own town.” 

“That has sometimes happened to me too,” 
said I, “but I pay no attention. Such things 
can happen to the best of us.” 

“Bravo, Sconer,” exclaimed the Contessina 
enthusiastically. “All hail to the glorious 
genius of the future !” 

But the moon was now pale and high up in 
the sky, and the candles were guttering. So I 
said : 

“Contessina, if you and Signor Cioccolani 
wish to accept my hospitality, I shall be de- 
lighted. But I must warn you that the last 
tramcar leaves at half past eleven. I am sorry 
that my chauffeur sleeps so far away ; otherwise 


WANTED— A WIFE 


187 


I would have him take you back in my auto- 
mobile. 

Accordingly I saw them as far as the tramcar. 
It was clear moonlight; and moonlight in the 
country is like the day. The Contessina said: 

“Unfortunately we find that we must give up 
our idea of having the Attiliad produced in an 
open-air theater, and we must sacrifice most of 
the Huns.” The moonlight was shining full on 
the Contessina’s face, making it look like 
mother-of-pearl. She and Cioccolani were talk- 
ing of the moon. I could not follow what they 
said, but that was certainly their topic. The 
Contessina was gazing up at the moon and she 
said : “To think of her having to sustain all that 
terrible beauty by herself !” 

“Ah, you, Ghiselda, could even sustain the 
part of Genevieve !” said Cioccolani. What 
were they really trying to get at? Because, 
after all, even if one is a poet, a time comes 
when one wants to attain a recognized position. 
This thought prompted me to ask: 

“Tell me, Signor Cioccolani, do you intend to 
go on all your life being a poet?” 

They both stared at me as though it were I 
who was crazy, and not they. 

“And are your parents satisfied?” 

“Don’t so much as speak of them!” said the 
Contessina. “His father would rather have 


188 


WANTED — A WIFE 


seen him behind a threshing machine, counting 
the bags of grain. Parents are useless when 
they fail to understand that they have a genius 
for a son .’ 7 

At last the two white headlights of the tram- 
car came in sight. 


CHAPTER XXII 


I MAKE PROGRESS 

T HE other 'morning, Sunday, the Counselor 
offered to take me up to the second story 
to see his library with “his dear books, : ” the 
books of “his dear father,” and the portrait of 
“his dear grandfather”; and on the way I en- 
countered Oretta in what they call the sitting- 
room busily dusting and rearranging. Her hair 
was not yet done up, and caught unawares in a 
wrapper and with a red handkerchief tied 
around her head, she had a style of her own : she 
looked like a Bedouin girl. 

I said in passing, “Oh, busy little house- 
keeper! But wear a pair of old gloves, so as 
not to spoil your pretty hands.” 

The Counselor introduced me to his dear 
books, the books which his father, when alive, 
had “handled so lovingly,” and which he too 
handles lovingly. 

“This is a regular library. And all very well 
bound,” I observed. 

He presented me also to his grandfather, that 
is to say, to the portrait: a face as smooth as a 

189 


190 


WANTED— A WIFE 


cameo, that issued from a huge cravat wound 
around the throat. 

“Fine picture ! So they used to wear cravats 
like that. How plainly one sees that he was a 
calm, well balanced man !” 

“And yet he had the soul of an artist.” Here- 
upon, I was treated to biography of his ances- 
tors. 

“This room,” I observed, “might be called the 
Gallery of Ancestors.” 

“Every family,” replied the Counselor, 
“ought to keep a sort of family shrine in the 
house.” 

“With apartments at the present high rents, 
that is impossible! But I am glad to observe 
that all your ancestors lived to a good old age.” 

“Yes, we are a rather long-lived family.” 
(There is an interesting detail for my heir.) 

“Speaking of books, I myself have one book to 
my credit.” 

The Counselor seemed rather astonished. 

“Yes, but quite a modest one : a book of hy- 
giene, in which I contend that it is our duty to 
reach the age of ninety-nine, which is the age 
established by Moses for the well deserving.” 

“The best way is never to let yourself 
worry. ...” 

“That is precisely my contention: always to 
have a serene outlook upon life.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


191 


The Counselor threw open the balcony 
window. Splendid panorama ! 

“See, down yonder, I can see my cottage!” 
said I. 

“And one can hear too,” said the Counselor. 
“The other evening you gave a late entertain- 
ment. I did not know that you went in for 
poetry, Cavaliere!” 

“Why, it was like this,” and I proceeded to 
explain the occurrence. 

“That Cioccolani!” said the Counselor. “Do 
you know what they call him hereabouts? 
Theobroma, Drink of the Gods! I laughed the 
other evening, but my wife was furious : ‘That 
mountebank and that crazy woman in my 
house !” Women, you know, one has to let them 
talk. Certainly if the Countess Ghiselda’s 
mental equilibrium was equal to her beauty, 
she would be a perfect creature; but then per- 
haps she would not have the same fascination 
she has now. I am not ashamed to tell you 
that, many a time, when I meet her, I ask myself 
what is the use of our Civil Code.” 

I endorsed the Counselor’s sentiments. He 
too, even at his age, has a keen eye for beauty. 

“And all the more,” said he, “because, poor 
girl, she is her own worst enemy. The nobility 
of the race is always at the bottom of her eccen- 
tricities.” 


192 


WANTED — A WIFE 


“Oh, one recognizes the aristocratic type ! 
Look at her nose. And is Cioecolani so rich 
that he can afford the luxury of being a poet?’ 7 

“His father, as I have already told you, is a 
modest landholder, whose w T orst misfortune is 
to have such a son. The old man insists that his 
own son was exchanged for this one by the 
nurse; but he has to support him just the same. 
Plague take it! If he wants poetry, let him go 
out into his father’s fields! But no, he seeks 
poetry in Rome, in Milan, in Paris, as the 
milliners do for the latest style in hats. Poetry 
lives in nature, and not between the leaves of 
books !” 

“Exactly my opinion.” 

“To have sons, nowadays, is a misfortune,” he 
concluded sighing. 

“But you are exempt,” said I, “you have only 
one daughter, and a model one at that.” 

“For different reasons,” said he, “a daughter 
gives one a great deal to think of. But tell me, 
Cavaliere, in times like these what sort of a 
future is there for a girl like Oretta, with such 
extremely sensitive feelings? Before the war 
Oretta used to come into this room; I used to 
teach her things, and we read good books 
together. I used to feel that my dead ancestors 
stood there listening. It was one of the 
greatest pleasures of my life. But now, I don’t 


WANTED — A WIFE 


193 


know, I really don’t know any longer what to 
say or what to teach my daughter. The whole 
world is so changed! Be good? ... be rever 
ential? ... be modest? . . . don’t tell lies? 
Oretta often says to me; ‘Papa, why don’t you 
call me up any more to study?’ I make the ex- 
cuse that I haven’t the time, but if you only 
knew how my heart aches!” 

I assured him that I sympathized with his 
worthy sentiments. “I, too,” said I, “when I 
was little recalled that my mother used to say to 
me : ‘Ginetto, be good, be modest, never tell lies !’ 
But as one grows older those things adjust 
themselves, and it all comes out right. But if 
you will excuse me for asking it, you don’t 
intend your daughter to remain unmarried do 
you?” 

“Why do you ask?” he inquired in amaze- 
ment. 

“Because the young lady will have to find a 
husband. ...” 

I had touched the secret wound in his heart. 

“She is still such a child,” he said. 

“I know, but she is growing night and day. 
Some fine day the child wakes up, and it is a 
duty to make provision ahead of time.” 

“Does that seem easy to you?” 

“No, somewhat difficult! The war is produc- 
ing a veritable shortage in eligible young men. 


194 


WANTED— A WIFE 


Add to that the economic problem : as you 
very well know, Counselor, as compared with 
what a wife cost before the war, to-day she costs 
double, and to-morrow she will cost treble. 
Marriage to-day is rather a perilous insti- 
tution.” 

“Far too much so! And vice is rampant 
among our young men!” 

“Exactly so, Counselor, keep away from vice! 
It is the greatest foe to perfect health. It is 
your duty to be on the look-out for a healthy 
young fellow — healthy, hut well-balanced. . . . ” 

“But where am I to find one, when they are 
all more or less unbalanced ?” 

“Yet they can be found. And industrious 
too, because, believe me, Counselor, idleness, as 
my mother used to say, is the father of all the 
vices. And naturally not a poor man, because 
poverty is a sort of disease.” 

“But you are proposing that I should seek 
the Arabian Phoenix,” said the Counselor. 

“Why so? All things can be found. It is 
only a question of having a perspicacious eye. 
To be sure, a young man with these fine quali- 
ties, who carried printed on his visiting card 
Wanted — A Wife! represents a treasure. 
But he can be found! And then, in addition 
to your collection of ancestors, you can begin 
a collection of posterity. And when the day 


WANTED— A WIFE 


195 


comes when you must close your eyes to this 
world, you will know in your tomb that the 
children of your children are treasuring your 
memory, just as you treasure the books of your 
revered ancestor here present. 

“It seems to me, Cavaliere, that you are of 
a cheerful disposition! 

“I feel it my duty, my dear Counselor.” 

But a loud barking from the dog, Leone, in- 
terrupted our colloquy. 

“It looks to me, Counselor, as though we had 
a warrior knocking at the gate!” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


MELAI 

W E saw Madam Caramel going down to the 
gate to meet him; and she cried out, 
“Well, of all things!” And then she called 
Oretta: “Oretta, come here!” 

The pebbles of the driveway crunched under 
the iron-shod boots; but the personal appearance 
of the warrior did not correspond to the sound 
of his tread. He was a rather lean, rather 
blond youth, and when he saw us he stood at at- 
tention, with a smile on his lips. We com- 
manded: “Break ranks!” 

Madam Caramel explained that he was one 
“of her wounded,” and had come to get some 
socks that she had promised him. 

“But,” said he, “I didn’t want to come: but 
since to-morrow we must get ready and be off, 
I said to myself: ‘Since they promised you 
those socks, you had better take them, for they 
will come in handy up yonder!’ But I really 
didn’t want to come. I did want to come the 
other evening, but I lost my way. I was going 
to come to-morrow, but to-morrow we leave.” 

196 


WANTED— A WIFE 


197 


The Counselor asked him into the house, and 
started to introduce him, but did not know his 
name. 

“Melai, Signore, my name is Melai.” It 
seemed to occur to him that we might want to 
know a little more than that. And then it all 
came out in a spurt, as if from a bottle when the 
cork is draw*n : “Marco Melai, of Florence, so 
to speak, because my father was then in garri- 
son at Florence. When the war broke out I 
was in Turin, supposed to be finishing my 
studies. But we w^ere leading a pretty gay life. 
So then I said to myself: ‘Melai, what are 
you going to do?’ I was all alone, you under- 
stand. Papa was at the front, — he is a Colonel, 
yes Signore 

“And mamma?” inquired the Counselor. 

“Mamma has been dead for a long time, yes 
Signore. So I had myself enrolled in the cav- 
alry, to start with. ‘If things go well with you,’ 
thought I, ‘if things go well, your career is made, 
my boy!’ Just a boy’s ambition, you see! I 
imagined then that I was going to enter Trieste, 
waving my sword and shouting, ‘Savoy! Savoy!’ 
Then followed another six months of carousing 
in Turin, so that they even wrote a futurist 
song about me.” 

The Counselor wanted to hear the song. So 


198 WANTED— A WIFE 

after much demurring, Melai finished by sing- 
ing it: 

Oh, Melai, if you ever come back here, 

We’ll paint poor old Turin a gorgeous red ! 

But sad foreboding says your bright career 

Will end with stones above your feet and head! 

“And after that?” asked the Counselor. 

“After that the cavalry took to their feet and 
became Alpine chasseurs. Oh, but after pass- 
ing a whole winter up yonder, I learned some 
sense. Yes, Signore, up above Cortina. And 
now we are going back. Where, I don’t know. 
But it is definitely settled that we start to-mor- 
row.” 

He laughed. The Counselor ordered some 
beer to be brought. Melai paid his respects and 
drank as daintily as a lady. 

“Really,” said Madam Caramel, “you look 
almost girlish, blond as you are!” 

“Others have told me that, too,” said Melai. 

“And to think that you have already been in 
the war!” said the Counselor. 

Oretta came down with the package of socks, 
tied up with a tri-colored string. Melai took 
it up by the string, with many thanks. Madam 
Caramel explained that they were socks of real 
wool, knit with needles and with much devotion 


WANTED— A WIFE 199 

— not merely to pass the time, as other women 
did. 

Everybody joined in escorting Melai to the 
gate. Good' wishes and farewells followed. 

“But aren’t you going to say anything at all?” 
demanded the Counselor of Oretta. 

Oretta did not say anything at all. 

“She is such a timid girl, that daughter of 
mine !” 

We reentered the house in silence, which was 
broken by the Counselor, who said : 

“Who is waging this war? Peasants, com- 
manded by lads like that.” 

“Yes, I know,” I permitted myself to say, 
“but to put those gentlemen over yonder out 
of business would take a type of man like you 
and me. These lads let themselves be slaugh- 
tered nobly, to be sure, but like so many chaf- 
finches.” 

I said this in perfect innocence; but I wish 
I had never uttered the words! 

Oretta’s eyes dilated until all the serenity 
of those Alpine lakes had disappeared. She 
said with a sort of sob : “But if you take away 
faith from one who has nothing else but faith, 
what is there left? Ah, all that you said then 
was unworthy, Signore!” 

“Oretta!” exclaimed mamma. 


200 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“Why, Oretta !” exclaimed papa. “I apologize 
for her, Cavaliere.” 

“There is no need,” said I, “indeed, I am glad 
of this evidence that the young lady is not 
timid. I unfortunately failed to make myself 
understood. What I meant to say was this : In 
war the first duty is to kill, but not to let one- 
self be killed.” 

“Then why haven’t you gone to war?” 

“Why, Oretta !” said mamma again. 

“Oretta!” exclaimed papa. 

“Signorina,” said I, “we are already working 
for the State.” 

“Forgive her,” said papa, “it is because of 
her great patriotism.” 

(It seemed to me a kind of patriotism that 
was open to suspicion. ) 


CHAPTER XXIV 


cappelletti, champagne and truffles 

L I SETT A came up the hill perspiring under 
the weight of her marketing. “Fine dinner 
to-day !” said she. “CappellettA and a meat pie, 
with those things that smell so bad but cost 
so much.” 

“Truffles.” 

“Yes, that’s it, the Signora has loosened up 
a bit. The pot is on the stove with a Paduan 
hen, that was the finest hen in the whole flock; 
as wise a bird as you or I. But a week ago 
she stopped laying and the mistress said ‘she 
won’t give any more eggs, wring her neck!’ and 
instead she was full of them, poor thing !” 

“Is it the Counselor’s anniversary?” 

“No, it’s a farewell feast — not because they’re 
glad, no, but because they are sorry that the 
young soldier is going away who was here the 
other evening.” 

“But didn’t he expect to leave then?” 

“He is leaving to-night. The mistress was 
talking with the Counselor and discovered that 
the father of this Melai is a friend of a friend 
201 


202 


WANTED— A WIFE 


of his, or something of that sort. Anyhow, he 
went to Melai’s quarters and invited him to 
dinner. Such a nice young man and so blond !” 

“Well, listen to that, the girl has lost her 
heart already!” 

“Oh, say! Don’t think I am as easy as all 
that! But the truth is that they are talking 
all the boys away from us, and we poor girls 
must stay at home and count our beads.” 

I, too, must go away. A profitable contract 
makes my presence in Genoa urgent. As luck 
would have it, about five o’clock in the after- 
noon I met the Counselor and Melai who were 
just starting for the former’s house on foot. 
Melai was in full regimentals, for he was leaving 
that evening. 

“You are definitely leaving,” I inquired. 

“Definitely.” 

“In that case let us leave together.” 

The Counselor begged me to postpone my 
departure, and take dinner with them. 

“Impossible ! I must be in Genoa to-morrow.” 

Here I showed the telegram, “Tuesday most 
convenient. Last word hundred thousand. Big 
Bertha. Greetings.” “Big Bertlia,” I explained 
“is an expression mutually agreed upon to mean 
‘a profitable deal,’ and to-morrow is Tuesday, 
my dear Counselor.” 


WANTED — A WIFE 


203 


“Do you have to go to Milan first, to get the 
money ?” inquired the Counselor. 

“A modest sum of a hundred thousand lire 
is always to be found,” I answered. “Besides, 
I happen to have it In my pocket-book.” 

“Lucky man!” 

Melai’s eyes showed utter stupefaction. “In 
Turin,” said he, “I used to have trouble enough 
to raise a hundred lire.” He laughed. 

“But, pardon me,” said the Counselor, “in 
that case you have at your disposal the 2 a. m. 
express, and another express at 5 A. m. And you 
have your automobile.” 

“In point of fact, I had thought of going in 
my auto.” 

“We shall be just so much the merrier,” said 
the Counselor. 

I begged them to wait ten minutes for me at 
the city gate. I speeded back with my limousine 
to the Maddelina pastry-shop. I pillaged the 
shop of the best they had in fondants and choco- 
late bonbons, in a box all belaced and beribboned, 
fit for a wedding present, also three bottles of 
extra dry champagne. Then I returned and 
took the Counselor and Melai on board. 

The Counselor gave me the details of the story 
of the friend of the friend; in short we ended 
by all three becoming friends. 


204 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“You too really must leave to-night, my dear 
Melai?” 

“Impossible to put it off. Duty calls us.” 

W e all three drove up together in the automo- 
bile. The Signora was waiting for us at the 
gate. She was very gracious and said, “You 
shall take pot-luck with us.” I presented the 
box of bonbons and the champagne. 

“Oh, why did you put yourself to so much 
trouble? But look at all the things you have 
brought!” And her eyes glistened at sight of 
the multi-colored collection of aristocratic 
sweets. 

Lisetta laid an extra plate. 

We dined beneath the pergola. It was most 
interesting. Signorina Oretta wanted to have 
Lisetta pass the platter around, as is done in 
fashionable society. But Lisetta did not know 
how to pass things around. And Madam Car- 
amel said: “Please let me manage things my 
own way.” And thereupon she took up the 
ladle and proceeded to deal out the portions of 
minestra. Big heaping platesful, peasant fash- 
ion. 

Oretta wanted the wine served in caraffes, but 
the Counselor supported the national rights of 
the classic fiasco ; and Melai sustained this opin- 


WANTED — A WIFE 


205 


ion with memories of the days when he helped 
to paint Turin red. 

Let us sum up by saying that the dinner, if not 
strictly according t o' etiquette, was at least 
highly national. 

The Paduan hen had borne no grudge, but had 
trimmed her own gravy with gleaming stars ; and 
the cappelletti swam in it in patriarchal cor- 
pulence. The Signora modestly sustained the 
superiority of home-made cappelletti over the 
manufactured kind. But I sustained the supe- 
riority of her own particular, personal manu- 
facture, with her own fair hands. My future 
mother-in-law proceeded to stuff me to suffoca- 
tion with cappelletti. Oretta’s slender fingers 
had also contributed to their making, but not, let 
us hope, Lisetta’s clumsy digits. 

Poor Oretta! Her manner of holding her 
knife and fork left much, very much, to be de- 
sired. As for Madam Caramel, she was almost 
too urgent. She shouldn’t have kept insisting, 
“ Another helping? Please, as a favor! . . . 
My dear man, use your fingers ! I do ! 

“Signora,” said I, “it is quite permissible. 
Yes, the question is still under discussion 
whether a chicken a la brocine can or cannot be 
held with the fingers when eaten. The first 
thing the queen of England did when she as- 


206 


WANTED— A WIFE 


cended the throne was to eat a chicken with her 
fingers; and the weight of English authority in 
such matters is highly respectable.” 

After the Paduan hen came an apricot char- 
lotte , a special effort of Madam Caramel’s. 
Then came my fondants and my champagne. 
We reciprocally congratulated each other; but 
despite all this the dinner was not a merry one. 
At a certain point, Melai became mute; he 
looked around him with strange eyes; then he 
said : “And yet that’s how it is !” 

“What’s that?” demanded the Counselor. 

Thereupon Melai spoke. 


CHAPTER XXV 


HEROIC DEEDS 

M ELAI began : “Sitting here in this arm- 
chair, eating all these good things, drink- 
ing this very good champagne . . (It was 
my champagne. ) 

“You feel as though you were dreaming, isn’t 
that so?” interrupted Madam Caramel. “Poor 
boys! poor, poor boys!” 

The Counselor admonished his wife that it 
was not quite seemly to call those heroes 
“poor boys.” But Melai made a gesture as 
though he would brush aside the word heroes. 
Then he said: 

“I feel as though I had lost the soul that I had 
while I was up yonder.” He realized that we 
did not understand, so he explained : “Up 
yonder with death so near, you acquire a dif- 
ferent soul. You have the sensation that there 
is nothing in the world worth having. Even if 
you had a hundred million, it would be nothing ! 
You feel that you have renounced everything — 
even youth and love.” 

“How terrible!” said the Counselor. 

207 


208 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“No, it is peaceful,” said Melai. “We become 
like monks who have renounced all. And yet 
we possess everything, because we are conscious 
of our soul. Perhaps it was because I was on 
Cadore, a relatively quiet section. Up there, on 
Cadore, we had sunlight, fragrant woodlands, 
mountains, snow, divine horizons. Up in those 
altitudes — I don’t know how — I thought out 
by myself certain ideas that I had never supposed 
existed excepting in poets’ dreams. Do you 
know what I did for tobacco up there? I learned 
to chew all the bitter herbs of the mountains. 
In the night-time I waited for the sun. After 
the sun had risen, I waited for the stars. I 
never before realized how marvelous day and 
night are, as I did up there. The sun and the 
stars whirled round about each other, as if in a 
tournament. What a marvelous thing the day 
is! Didn’t any of you ever notice what a mar- 
velous thing it is? A verse from Dante sprang 
up in my mind and seemed to bathe my soul: 
Vora del tempo e la dolce stagione. I chewed on 
that along with the bitter herbs. It seemed to 
me that every morning at sunrise God silently 
washed clean the blood-stained earth. Physi- 
cally I was unclean and offensive, but within me 
I felt a great purity, I felt the joy of a valiant 
heart. If we are to die, let’s die bravely.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 209 

At this point I asked : “Are there really many 
‘cooties’ up there?” 

“Yes, indeed, lots of them! I kept my head 
shaved like the friars, and yet, here is a strange 
thing ! I had with me this little tube of perfume, 
and it gave me a sense of cleanliness, an almost 
sensuous delight. Here it is !” 

I looked at the tube. “Oh! That is .fur- 
nished by us! One of our products.” (What a 
nice young fellow !) 

“Undoubtedly,” continued Melai, “it’s a mis- 
take for any of us to come home ! Do you know 
that for the first few days I was homesick for 
those ten thousand feet? In Turin and in 
Milan there were cafes wide open, moving 
pictures wide open, electric lights and crowds 
staring at us with strange eyes. They clapped 
their hands and watched us curiously. Didn’t 
they know that we were destined to die? 
Friends recognized us and said : ‘Oh, look who’s 
here !’ As much as to say : ‘Aren’t you dead yet?’ 
No, our country does not realize the war! It’s 
different with the other countries, they have 
realized it ! Even our own soldiers don’t realize 
the war ; they fight bravely and they die ; but for 
them the war is ‘hard luck.’ Who knows? Per- 
haps that is why you call us heroes. But that 
is something the newspapers haven’t said.” 


210 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“Don’t the newspapers interest you?” in- 
quired the Counselor. 

“No, they don’t.” 

“Or who’s going to win the war?” 

“That doesn’t interest us either. That inter* 
ests those who will write its history; and those 
who afterwards will divide up the earth ; but it 
is of no interest to those who are destined to 
die.” 

“But patriotism and glory?” questioned the 
Counselor. 

“Yes, of course,” said Melai. “But I don’t 
know why, all those who feel patriotism and 
glory are the ones that are taken off by death, as 
though they were predestined.” 

Madam Caramel had been sitting with her 
mouth wide open, as though there was a 
question within her that was struggling to come 
out. At last out it came. 

“Are you very much afraid of the dead?” 

“Much afraid? No. Sometimes at night 
they seem to be staring at the moon — but afraid, 
no. They are dead. They smell rather bad.” 

“Then you wouldn’t be afraid,” I inquired, 
“to kill a man?” 

“Why should I be afraid?” 

“But aren’t we all Christiana?” came from 
the wide open mouth of Madam Caramel. 

“That’s what we oall ourselves ; but in war the 


WANTED— A WIFE 


211 


other man is after my skin and Fm after his.” 

Just once Melai had had a tragic experience. 
We begged him to relate it. He did so : 

“Up there in a little cottage were two charm- 
ing young women who had been left all alone; 
they spoke the Venetian dialect very prettily, 
and they provided meals to onr officers. One 
night the Captain discovered that signals were 
being sent out from that cottage. There was no 
doubt about it ; the young women had a wireless 
outfit in the house. Besides, the older sister con- 
fessed, and assumed all the responsibility, to 
protect the younger one.” 

“Was she sent to prison?” asked Oretta. 

“No, we shot her.” 

Oretta stared at Melai incredulously. The 
rest of us stared too. Melai smiled: “What 
else was there to do?” 

Silence. 

“Then she’s dead?” 

“Of course.” 

“How did she die?” 

“Rather finely : she stepped forward and cried : 
‘Long live Franz Joseph V When she had fallen, 
she looked like a little dead sparrow.” 

Silence. 

Oretta was trembling; the Counselor had let 
his cigar go out. At that moment, through the 
silence of the countryside, was heard a soft and 


212 


WANTED— A WIFE 


sweet ting -ting. It was the Ave Maria. Oretta 
made the sign of the cross. The rest of us came 
near crossing ourselves too. 

We all accompanied Melai to the tramcar for 
the final leave-taking. My future mother-in- 
law informed him that in the toe of each sock 
he would find a surprise in the shape of a cara- 
mel. I said to him affectionately: 

“Signor Melai, you are rather tall of stature, 
look out that you don’t hold your head too high. 
And if you’ll take my advice, restrain yourself 
from chivalrous actions. Meanwhile, I will send 
you some powder of our own manufacture, that 
will settle the cooties.” 

Our return was quite eloquent as far as the 
Counselor and I were concerned; but monosyl- 
labic on the part of Signorina Oretta. 

“To think,” said the Counselor, “after all the 
years since the world was created, after Grotius, 
after Aberico Gentili, that men should still 
be slaughtering and massacring one another! 
Whoever would have thought it?” 

“Still,” said I, “we were aware of certain 
things. I remember the Milan Exposition of 
1906. On this side was the pavilion of France : 
it was devoted to the art de se deshabiller. 
Facing it was the pavilion of Germany. Well, 


WANTED— A WIFE 


213 


do you know what they had put right at the 
main entrance? Two cannon. ‘Oh, la, la, la!’ 
I remember exclaiming. And quite recently an 
agent of a Leipzig houSfe told me : ‘Give a good 
big order, Signor Sconer, because when our Em- 
peror gives the signal, Germany will fling her- 
self forward like a steel serpent.’ What could 
you expect? They were short of money, and 
the Emperor said: ‘My boys, why should you 
be plundering the house of your good papa? 
Let us go and plunder the houses of other peo- 
ple.’ Then everybody feasted and made merry. 
Forward march ! War was good business.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Madam Caramel emphatic- 
ally; “that is because there is no religion left.” 

“Bravo!” said I. “Just what we say in 
Milan, there is no religion left ” 

Hereupon the Counselor burst forth as though 
he had suddenly gone crazy, shouting: 

“If it were not for this little angel here, I too 
would go and let myself be slaughtered.” 

Whereupon the little angel suddenly went 
crazy herself and cried : 

“No, papa! No, papa, not you too!” 

“May Divine Providence protect us all!” 
said Madam Caramel. 

“That’s all right, but Providence doesn’t seem 
to be on the job,” said' I. “But do you know, 


214 


WANTED— A WIFE 


Counselor, wliat time it is? Close on to mid- 
night. And to-morrow morning I must be in 
Genoa. I am off in my automobile.” 

While the chauffeur was getting the machine 
in order the Counselor said. 

“Look, w T hat a moon!” 

The slender trees standing stiffly in the moon- 
light looked as though made of silver. “And 
to think, on such a peaceful night, poor France, 
poor Belgium . . .” 

“And also poor Italy, my dear Counselor,” 
said I, “because there is no knowing! But as 
for you,” I said to the chauffeur, “don’t be look- 
ing at the moon, and don’t be thinking of 
Belgium, because we want to land in Genoa, and 
not in Vega or in the bottom of some ditch.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


AN UNSEEMLY SPECTACLE 

T HE business matter in Genoa turned out to 
be excellent, but somewhat complicated. 
It was a question of redeeming at once a quantity 
of jewelry and precious stones that had been 
pledged. With my usual far-sightedness I per* 
ceived that the investment of capital in 
diamonds and pearls, in these days of precipi- 
tous decline of stocks and bonds, would bring 
excellent returns ; and at the same time it would 
provide me with wedding presents worthy of Gin- 
etto Sconer. 

I was obliged to go to Milan to consult my 
legal adviser, and there I met with an unpleas- 
ant surprise: Biagino, my chauffeur, was called 
to the colors. A great pity, for he was a fine 
lad! He saved gasoline and tires in a most 
praiseworthy fashion. Still another unpleasant 
surprise: one day, as I returned home, four 
wounded soldiers, lined up against the wall as 
my automobile passed, shook their crutches at 
me, and shouted : “Dirty Slacker !” It was evi- 
dent from their accent that they were Romans, 
215 


216 


WANTED— A WIFE 


but it was also evident that these were critical 
times. I must give up my automobile. 

Honestly, I was very happy when I found 
that I could change into jewelry the bank notes 

that I took with me in the first place to P 

in order to purchase the golden haired Contes* 
sina. 

“All right, instead let us purchase Oretta, 
with the nut-brown tresses.” The jewels were 
very beautiful. Among them was a necklace 
of flawless oriental pearls, which alone repre- 
sented a value not much less than the whole sum 
I had had to pay. 

“Great Heavens!” I said to myself, “If I 
should let Madam Caramel see such a sight as 
this, she is quite capable of indulging in some 
stupid personalities. No, my lady. All you 
will see will be just one simple wedding 
present.” But I want to see whether Oretta’s 
eyes will rest indifferently upon these jewels 
worthy of a princess of a reigning house. “Come 
come, Signorina, the time of double violets has 
passed, and roses are entitled to adornments 
such as these.” 

Well, what actually has come to pass belongs 
to the order of unheard of and fantastic happen- 
ings — I might almost say, to the order of the 
cinematograph. 


WANTED— A WIFE 


217 


I have set down the memorable date: Friday, 
June 7, at half past eleven in the morning. 

But let us proceed in proper order. I had 

returned from Genoa to P by train, after 

a miserable journey, suffering from heat and 
loss of sleep, because when one carries a package 
of such value, it is no time to sleep. 

I thought with satisfaction of Lisetta: “As 
soon as I reach there I will have her bring up 
two buckets of water, that ice cold water from 
the bottom of the well.” In imagination I 
could already feel the pleasant and stimulating 
shock. “Quick, Lisetta! My pajamas, and 
here are two gold pieces for you, one for each 
bucket.” I enjoyed this novel idea. 

Upon arriving in P I took a carriage and 

with my jewel case in hand, was driven out to 
my cottage. The horse took his own time, but 
that didn’t matter. As soon as we were be- 
yond the gates, the fresh air of the open country 
blew upon me, laden with the fragrance of red 
clover, the warm odor of ripening corn, and 
the white clusters hanging from the acacias. 
“Nature,” I thought to myself, “is substantially 
a perfumer, like myself.” 

But the horse went so slowly that I opened 
the envelope of a note that I had in my pocket. 
It proved to be from my chauffeur, and it said : 


218 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“If I return I will enter your service again. 
If I don’t return I will say : ‘Long live Italy !’ ” 
The fine lad! Well, we are all of us patriots 
these days. Let us hope that everything will 
turn out for the best, and then we shall have 
a fine little nest in these idyllic hills, with Sig- 
nora Oretta and perhaps my heir, to whom we 
will present the world under its most appealing 
aspect. 

But when we reached the foot of the ascent 
the horse refused to ascend. 

“The poor horses,” said the driver, “don’t get 
any oats these days and they have no strength 
left.” 

“Never mind,” I replied, “I can walk the rest 
of the way.” 

So I left the carriage and, with my jewel case 
in hand, made my way up toward the cottage. 

But what was it that my amazed eyes beheld 
beneath the pergola? Was it he or was it not? 
Yes, it was Melai. Then hadn’t he gone? If 
that was he, he evidently had not gone. I re- 
ceived a sort of premonitory shock. I could 
make out Melai, under the pergola, tranquilly 
seated in a wicker chair. He was serenely 
smoking a cigarette, and blowing the spirals of 
smoke heavenward. But he was not alone. 
Oretta was standing in front of him. 

And papa? and mamma? Neither of them! 


WANTED— A WIFE 219 

No one at all, except the dog, Leone, who was 
sleeping. 

So far there was nothing exceptionally grave ; 
but I perceived that something grave was about 
to take place; because, almost without meaning 
to, I found myself down in the ditch, peering 
through the hedge at what was taking place 
under the pergola. 

The scene had changed, but it was just as 
easy to understand. Melai’s eyes had grown 
tender as they rested upon Oretta; and I felt 
my own eyes growing savage. All at once, 
Oretta’s little hand reached over and took a 
chocolate from a box that stood on the rustic 
table; she carefully unwrapped it and again 
reached out her hand. Melai’s mouth seemed 
to be waiting ; he had thrown his cigarette away, 
and the chocolate went in to take its place. 

“What do these confidential proceedings mean? 
This seems to be a hereditary failing ! But that 
box is my box, those chocolates are my choc- 
olates !” 

Melai was now holding his eyes shut as though 
taking his first communion. 

“Is that what you call renunciation, you 
impostor?” I exclaimed silently. “But here 
comes something that is even worse!” All at 
once, what did I see? I saw Signorina Oretta 
draw even closer to him, reach out her hand and 


220 


WANTED — A WIFE 


thrust her fingers through his hair. Her hand 
passed back and forth, as though she were comb- 
ing it; and he bent his head forward and let 
himself be combed. It was a silent but impres- 
sive spectacle. I felt a singing in my ears. It 
seemed all at once as though, in all the surround- 
ings fields there were little hidden Cupids, ac- 
companying the scene on violins. Perhaps it 
was only the locust. 

Then, I don’t know whether it was the sun- 
light moving under the pergola, or my eyes that 
played me a trick, but the two figures strangely 
shifted their positions. Oretta bent down lower 
and lower, or allowed herself to be drawn down ; 
their eyes came closer and closer, their tfwo 
faces merged together and ceased to move. Evi- 
dently this was a kiss ! The music of the 
Cupids ceased and the sun seemed to stand still. 

I do not know for how long a time Melai and 
Oretta remained like this, because I myself was 
by this time paralyzed in the bottom of my ditch. 
I shook myself a little from time to time and 
said: “Why, they are kissing forever! Bravo, 
Signorina Oretta, and congratulations to you, 
too, Signor Melai, congratulations ! A fine 
saint, I don’t think!” 

I meant to confront them and say just these 
very words, but I couldn’t, because all of a 
sudden the dog Leone awoke; barked furiously, 


WANTED— A WIFE 


221 


barked savagely; and I saw him, with yawning 
jaws and every hair bristling, bounding in my 
direction. 

I reached my cottage in safety, but prodig- 
iously dirty. Fortunately I still had my jewel 
case with me. 


CHAPTER XXYII 


I AM ANGRY FOR THE FIRST TIME 

N OT until I was back in my cottage, and my 
mirror showed me my soiled and haggard 
face, did I have a full realization of my disap- 
pointment. I shouted aloud: “Jade, hypocrite, 
Mam’zelle Nitouche! Fire ahead, papa isn’t 
watching! ‘Such a timid girl,’ says papa!” 

The edifice that I had so carefully constructed, 
the time I had expended and — I may as well add 
— the money too, had all come to nothing. And 
if I want to be exact I must add that my shat- 
tered aircastle was still in the course of shat- 
tering. A girl not yet of age, a little flapper, 
before whom I had steadily restrained myself 
out of extreme delicacy, from uttering the sac- 
ramental words — “Signorina, I love you” — to 
think of a girl like that giving such kisses as 
those I saw, the kisses of an experienced woman. 
Ah, false little flapper! Or perhaps flappers 
have ceased to exist. Probably while I was 
brushing the mud from my clothes, they were still 
going on with their kissing ; and at that 
thought I was forced to admit that I was suffer- 
222 


WANTED— A WIFE 


223 


in g. Indeed, my eyes were starting from my 
head. And perhaps what made me even more 
furious than the kiss, was the sight of the pre- 
paratory steps that led up to it : when she combed 
his hair so gently with her fingers ; and when she 
slipped into his mouth one of my chocolates. 
Like this! She did it like this! And I found 
myself pantomiming the act of slipping a choc- 
olate into my mouth. “You are suffering, 
Ginetto Sconer, you are really suffering !” The 
sweet freshness of that young girl which I had 
expected to enjoy, Melai had enjoyed instead. 
Woe to them if I had been a man of blood, such 
as are so numerous to-day! At this hour two 
corpses would be lying beneath that pergola. 

The next morning I was feeling a little better, 
yet not enough so to prevent my saying, when 
Lisetta came to put the rooms in order : 

“Fine goings on, I must say, in the other 
house ! My congratulations, my many congratu- 
lations on your little mistress.” 

“Why Signore?” inquired Lisetta. 

“Perhaps you don’t know what happened yes- 
terday, at about this time, over there under the 
pergola?” And I related what I had seen: 
“An indecent spectacle! I couldn’t tell how 
long a time she kept on combing his hair.” 

“You must understand, Signore, that she 


224 


WANTED — A WIFE 


knew death couldn’t get him by the hair so 
long as she was combing it. She did the same 
thing every morning, all the time that you were 
away.” 

“You mean to say . . .?” 

She assured me that she did. 

“But the evening that I went away, he went 
too! So his going was just a fake?” 

“I don’t know, Signore,” said Lisetta, “but 
I think that he got an extension of leave for 
family matters.” 

“Ah, you call this a family matter? A fine 
state of things !” 

“The morning after you left, Signore, we sud- 
denly saw him coming back again, and the mis- 
tress made the greatest fuss over him.” 

“Then her mother knew all about it?” 

“I think she did.” 

“And her father too?” 

“Oh, he is always the last one to know about 
things.” 

“But when did they fall in love?” 

“Who can tell, Signore? Love comes like 
that!” 

“What do you mean, dike that?’ Like what 
happened under the pergola?” 

“Anything might happen, even under the 
pergola.” 

“But you, Lisetta, who knew my intentions, 


WANTED— A WIFE 


225 


you who saw that I was absent, why didn’t you 
come to the rescue?” 

“Ah, Signore,” exclaimed Lisetta, quite mor- 
tified, “I did what I could; and the moment I 
had a chance I spoke to the Signorina.” 

“Well?” 

“I didn’t want to tell you, Signore, for fear 
of offending you.” 

“I authorized you to speak.” 

“Well then, if you will know, the Signorina 
said: ‘Hush, hush, Lisetta! Do you think I 
would marry a big, fat, red man, old enough to 
be my father?” 

“Did she say that? Incredible!” 

“Her precise words.” 

“But you ought to have insisted; ‘A man 
who knows what he is saying, who knows what 
he wants, who counts for something in the 
world, . . .” 

“I said all that, Signore.” 

“And she?” 

“And she?” She said: ‘With all the non- 
sense that you talk, you will end by getting 
housemaid’s knee’ ” 

“The silly girl! You ought to have told her 
that I had come to an understanding with her 
father.” 

“I said that, too.” 

“And what did she answer?” 


226 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“That sooner than marry a wig maker, even 
if he were covered with gold, she would throw 
herself off from the campanile of San Fulgen- 
zio, which is the highest in the town.” 

“But the girl is mad!” 

“No, Signore: she is in love!” 

Hereupon Lisetta became silent, and I too. 

But those atrocious words repeated by Lisetta 
still rang in my ears. I a wig maker? I am an 
up-builder of beauty, and also of civilization, 
because those who use my products are cultured 
and refined. I felt myself invaded by an auto- 
intoxication of fury. 

“I shall pull the ears of that young man,” 
said I. 

“Don’t do that, for mercy’s sake!” said Li- 
setta, “All the young men who have been at the 
front have become so blood-thirsty.” 

“Do you mean to suggest that I am afraid?” 

“Oh, no, Signore. I only say that this is a 
time when a catastrophe might happen.” 

“Of course I don’t want to cause a tragedy, 
but at all events, I shall talk to him, and tell 
him what I think of him: ‘See here, my fine 
fellow, so fond of star-gazing, it seems that you 
prefer to gaze at something besides stars under- 
neath the pergola. Congratulations!’ Oh, I 
shall tell him all that, and more too.” 

“It is impossible, because he has gone.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


227 


“I don’t believe it, because he ought to have 
gone so many other times. He has only gone 
away provisionally.” 

“No, gone for good.” 

“In that case I shall write to him : ‘Ah, false 
sentimentalist ! Instead of stars, you prefer the 
things of this base earth, including my choco- 
lates.’ And that wretched girl prefers a beard- 
less stripling, who is here to-day and gone to- 
morrow, to me, who counts for something in this 
world. I ‘talk nonsense,’ do I! ‘A stout, red 
man,’ am I!” 

“You are a man who might make any woman 
happy.” 

“You have uttered a great truth. But you do 
not know all. Do you know why I went to 
Genoa? This, you see, is the terrible part of it! 
I went to Genoa expressly to buy the wedding 
present. And it was precisely while I was buy- 
ing the rarest of jewels that I was betrayed.” 

“Oh, poor Signore! Is that really so?” 

“Do you wish to question my word? Come 
here, come here, Lisetta. Look, look, if only to 
have an idea of who I am. This was my wedding 
present.” 

I led her into my room and opened the jewel 
box. 

“Holy Virgin! How wonderful !* 

Look at this necklace alone. To give you 


228 


WANTED— A WIFE 


some idea, not even the Queen has one like it.” 

She reached out one finger to touch it. 

“You ought to feel the weight.” 

“And are they real pearls?” 

“Are they real? Yes, real oriental. Not a 
flaw in them.” 

“They must be worth a lot!” 

“As much as you, and she, and he, and the 
whole shanty with the Counselor and his wife 
included. Yes, yes, help yourself. All I want 
is to get away from here. Take the nail scis- 
sors, take the face powder, and the perfume at- 
omizer, if you care for it.” I let her pillage my 
whole toilet set. 

I went down into the garden because I felt 
that my eyes were savage, and my whole face 
discomposed. There was nobody in sight. But 
when I saw Oretta’s kittens sticking their pink 
tongues into a bowl of white milk, I gave them 
a savage kick; and the two kittens went flying 
over the hedge. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


1 BECOME A PHILOSOPHER AND A POET 

I WAS excited that day; but I have calmed 
down since. Still I have retained an in- 
ward sense of bitterness and disillusion. 

“There she is, the shameless girl !” I saw her 
from the window of my cottage sitting under 
the pergola and working, with that abominable 
dog, Leone, beside her. Whoever would have 
imagined that that girl was capable of giving 
such kisses; of lavishing such caresses? A girl 
still in her teens! “No, Signorina! You were 
just a fake, Miss Innocence, a counterfeit lily. 
You have betrayed my trust.” I was mentally 
addressing these words to Signorina Oretta 
from my window, when I perceived that there 
were some lilies in my garden. How had they 
come there? Probably they had been there aP 
ready, and had bloomed without my being aware 
of it. 

Perhaps this was what had happened to 
Oretta; she had bloomed under the influence of 
love. The women in Lionello’s books bloom 
both summer and winter; but the phenomenon 
229 


230 


WANTED— A WIFE 


in nature is a far lovelier sight. Only I should 
have been the one to do the awakening, Signor 
Melai, I and not you! You have appropriated 
in y property ! And all through jealousy. What 
a frightful emotion ! It acts like a suction 
pump upon the heart, and drains off all one’s 
blood and all one’s property rights. One no 
longer has what belongs to him. There it is, 
but it is no longer his; it belongs to another 
man. Property rights in a woman are not like 
those that I have in my apartment house. To 
be sure, there are plenty of other women — but 
what good is that? What I wanted was that 
one woman ! With that specially shaped mouth, 
that particular smile, that particular fragrance 
that is her’s alone. Why, Oretta, didn’t you 
give your caresses to me? Why didn’t you 
comb my hair in that special way of yours? 

While I was thinking in this strain I realized 
that such an operation would not have proved 
wholly successful, because my hair is consider- 
ably plastered down with pomade. When I drew 
back my hand, it was pleasantly perfumed, but 
rather sticky. I must admit that Melai’s hair 
lends itself better to that sort of operation. 
But that does not alter the fact, Signor Melai, 
that you appropriated my property, and that 
she allowed herself to be appropriated. And 


WANTED— A WIFE 


231 


then there came back to my mind those abomin- 
able words of hers : “A big, fat, red man !” 

Ah, Signorina Oretta! I am a big, fat, red 
man, am I? 

“Your opinion, Signorina,” I apostrophized 
her from my window, “is all wrong ! I am what 
I am ! I am no spider, garbed in greenish gray ; 
but I am a man on a solid footing who counts 
for something in the world; and your Melai is 
only some one who is here to-day, and is gone 
to-morrow. And you yourself, Signorina? I 
thought you capable, not only of modesty, but 
also of understanding the advantages of the ex- 
ceptional position which I was offering you. 
That is a superior type of poetry which you are 
unable to appreciate. So much the worse for 
you.” 

I was in the midst of combing my disordered 
hair when Lisetta came in. 

“Does it strike you, Lisetta, that I am big 
and fat and red? Perhaps my hair is red! No, 
not red, Titianesque. Wait, wait until a little 
time has passed, and then you will see how bit- 
terly the old woman, and the young woman too, 
will repent.” 

“Perhaps you are right, Signore,” said Li- 
setta. “But if you only knew how my young 
mistress has suffered since he went ! She 


232 


WANTED — A WIFE 


doesn’t sleep, she doesn’t eat, she’s grown very 
pale.” 

“This news,” said I, “greatly pleases me. Let 
her take opium! Ah, it doesn’t happen every 
day that a poor provincial girl can find a hus- 
band with a hundred thousand lire of wedding 
presents in jewels alone, besides all the rest.” 

“Since he left the poor child has lost at least 
six pounds weight.” 

“Two pounds a day,” said I. 

“And besides that she has indigestion!” 

“Let her take Cascara Sagrada,” said I. 

“She prays every day that the good Lord will 
keep him safe.” 

“Tell her to make another vow, never to leave 
the house on Saturdays; then she will have two 
days at home, Fridays and Saturdays.” 

“I think you are very unkind, Signore!” 

“Would you expect me to be kind to any one 
who has treated me so badly?” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE USELESSNESS OF MY BEST ELOQUENCE 

1 SHOULD not have had the following inter- 
view with Signorina Oretta if her persistent 
presence under the pergola had not steadily 
augmented my indignation. And besides, my 
outraged vanity demanded some reparation. 

She sat there, from morning till night, all by 
herself, bent over her work, with the dog, Leone, 
motionless at her feet. 

Having thought out what I would say, I made 
my toilet as if for a visit of condolence. I drew 
on a pair of gloves and took my way up the 
little path. My step crunching upon the gravel 
caused Oretta to turn her head. The dog Leone 
— forever accursed — was surly as ever; he did 
not turn his head, and he did not bark, but con- 
tented himself with showing his teeth. 

"Good morning, Signorina Oretta,” said I. 
"I am distressed that I was unable to exchange 
greetings once more with Signor Melai, the dear, 
delightful young man !” 

“He has gone.” 

“Yes, I know, gone for good.” 

233 


234 


WANTED— A WIFE 


( Silence. ) 

“With your permission, Signorina, I will sit 
down.” 

“Why, of course.” 

(“With your permission, too,” said my ques- 
tioning glance at the dog, Leone.) I seated 
myself on the rustic chair, where Melai had sat. 

“If you will also permit it, Signorina, I should 
like to speak with you.” 

“Why, of course.” She continued to sit with 
her head bent down, over her embroidery. Here- 
upon I proceeded to address her with a discourse 
at once pathetic and persuasive, 

“Signorina Oretta,” I began, “I am going to 
speak to you — how shall I put it? — not poet- 
ically but practically. Prior to Friday, June 7, 
at half past eleven in the morning, I lived in the 
assurance that you had never crossed, so to speak 
the frontier of Love. I even believed that you 
were unaware of Love’s existence; consequently 
conducting myself like the perfect gentleman 
that I prided myself in being, I always main- 
tained a decorous reserve toward you. Are you 
doing me the honor of listening to me, Signo- 
rina?” 

The Signorina Oretta said nothing, so I pro- 
ceeded : 

“But on the morning of Friday, June 7, at 
half past eleven, having just returned from my 


WANTED— A WIFE 


235 


trip to Genoa, which had, if I may say so, some 
connection with what I am about to tell you, I 
was forced to recognize, in a manner which — I 
beg you to believe — was at once indisputable 
and wholly involuntary on my part, that despite 
your demureness you already had a knowledge 
— not to say property rights in — the realm of 
Love. I will be specific : Here is what oc- 
curred. . . 

While I specified, I expected to be interrupted, 
but I was not. I expected that her face would 
crimson. But nothing of the kind happened. 

Presently I finished specifying. She con- 
tinued to sit in rigid silence. 

“I am sorry,” said I, “that Signor Melai has 
left, because I wanted, oh, not to make a tragic 
scene, but simply to say : ‘Congratulations, 
Signor Melai, sincere congratulations! We rec- 
ognize that, after proclaiming the vanity of all 
worldly things, you have altered your opinion; 
and that after contemplating the moon and stars, 
you have discovered that it is also pleasant to 
lower your eyes upon a lovely face. Congrat- 
uations !’ ” 

Signorina Oretta began to understand the 
significance of my remarks, for she started ; 
but I continued: 

“And let me congratulate you also for your 
success in recalling that young man to a fuller 


236 


WANTED— A WIFE 


appreciation of earthly blessings. It has been 
very pleasant for him, however unpleasant it 
may have been for me. But I owe you no 
grudge, Signorina! Just at first, I confess, I 
received a somewhat unfavorable impression in 
your regard ; but then I thought it over and re- 
alized that the thing was bound to happen 
sooner or later, either through the intervention 
or Signor Melai, or of someone else. I should 
have been glad myself to be the lucky man — but 
that has nothing to do with our present discus- 
sion. What I am anxious to make clear is that I 
had singled you out for favorable intentions. I 
had even permitted myself to make certain 
propositions to your father, and had received 
encouraging assurances from him. I will tell 
you something more : my trip to Genoa was for 
the purpose of acquiring a few decorative bau- 
bles of a kind not to be disdained by ladies of 
the most rigid virtue. However, on the morn- 
ing of June 7, I witnessed what I may describe 
as an assault upon your own virtue. That spec- 
tacle, believe me, was not included in the pro- 
gram of my journey! But note this: I am not 
discussing at the present moment the preference 
given to Signor Melai : you find Melai attractive, 
and consequently you find me repellent. My 
masculine pride is wounded. I realize that 
means nothing to you. Only, I am surprised 


WANTED— A WIFE 


237 


that a young lady like you, whom I selected es- 
pecially for your qualities of mental balance, 
should have been so susceptible to such a phe- 
nominal outburst of what I may call irrational 
passion. No! I am speaking plainly,” said I 
to the dog, Leone, who was eyeing me very 
sharply, “I am speaking plainly as my habit is ; 
plainly, but with energy and precision.” And I 
awaited a reply. 

Hereupon Signorina Oretta’s lips moved, and 
this reply came forth : 

“We had known each other before.” 

“That is a detail of which I was wholly un- 
aware,” said I. “You wish to imply that a 
prior right existed in favor of Signor Melai?” 

She nodded her head affirmatively. 

“My heart still bleeds; but honor is saved!” 

Signorina Oretta thereupon moved impul- 
sively; her hand groped and drew out a letter; 
she passed it to me. 

“Signorina,” said I, “you wish to offer me 
documentary proof of your verbal statement; 
but it is not necessary, I assure you.” 

But she insisted. 

“Well, since you insist. . . .” Thereupon I 
drew the letter from its envelope, unfolded the 
sheet, and read as follows : 

“Signorina, my name is Marco Melai; I am 
a Corporal in the 6th Cividale Battalion. I am 


238 


WANTED— A WIFE 


twenty- two years old, and have been in the war 
since October 5, 1915. I have already been 
wounded once. My father is a Colonel; my 
poor mother is no longer in this world. I hope 
that this introduction will be sufficient. Where 
am I now? Up on the mountains. I leave 
it to you to guess where. Do you want to be the 
god-mother of my Alpine troops? I assure you 
that they are fine young fellows, as good as they 
are brave. Perhaps it is not my place to say so, 
but the truth never does any harm.” 

I returned the letter to its envelope, and re- 
stored it to her with my best manner. She re- 
placed it within the none too voluminous ar- 
chives of her bosom. 

“But permit me to ask, Signorina,” I re- 
sumed, “it would appear from the tone of this 
letter that the gentleman in question was not 
personally acquainted with you.” 

Oretta replied : “No more was I acquainted 
with him.” 

“W ould it be indiscreet to ask for a little fur- 
ther enlightenment?” 

“A year ago,” said Oretta, “while I was still 
in school, the principal asked us girls to donate 
some books and reading matter for the soldiers. 
So I gave a copy of Silvio Pellico’s “My Prison 
Days,” in which my name was written on the fly- 
leaf.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


239 


“And probably your address too?” 

Yes, it was. And then one morning the post- 
man came and gave me this letter. . . 

“Signorina, I beg of you, calm yourself. And 
as soon as you received this letter, you answered 
it?” 

“No, I showed it . . .” 

“To papa?” 

“No, to mamma.” 

“And mamma said . . . ?” 

“To answer it with a few kind words.” 

“And naturally you answered?” 

“Yes, Signore.” 

“And he continued to write?” 

“Yes, Signore. Later I met him here at the 
hospital, where I used to go with mamma. Once 
when I went to the hospital, I wore a rose. . . .” 

“And he asked you for it?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you gave it to him?” 

“Yes.” 

“And mamma was present?” 

“Yes.” 

( I understood : the rose had taken root. ) 

“Will you permit one more question? Isn’t it 
a fact that you care more for papa than for 
mamma?” 

She stared at me in bewilderment. 

“Your papa is a serious man. A man sure 


240 


WANTED— A WIFE 


of himself. He knows that roses bloom in May, 
but later on comes winter. Your eyes see only 
the springtime, but ours are more farsighted, 
and overlook the whole horizon of life. Do 
you think, Signorina, that your father will be 
pleased, the day that he learns that you have 
bound up your destiny with that of a soldier?” 

“He is in line of promotion, Signore !” 

“Even granting that he is in line of promo- 
tion. . . .” 

I wanted to say “in line of being a corpse” but 
I restrained myself; the two Alpine lakes had 
been gradually clouding over, and my first im- 
pulse was to take my handkerchief out of my 
pocket and pass it over her pretty face. And 
yet it gave me some satisfaction to see her 
suffer. 

“But it is those fine exalted souls like him,” 
she suddenly burst forth, “who are sacrificing 
themselves to-day !” 

Signorina Oretta uttered these words with 
notable agitation, and I was particularly struck 
by the heaving of her breast, which hitherto 
had been chiefly conspicuous by its absence. 

“Signorina,” I replied, “I share your noble 
sentiments. However, if you wish to reconsider 
the matter, if you would like to have a longer 
time in which to give me an answer, I, on my 
part, am disposed to regard the phenomenon 


WANTED — A WIFE 


241 


which took place under this pergola, on the 
morning of June 7, as though it had never hap- 
pened.” 

Her reply was unexpected, and not at all 
such as my generosity deserved. 

“Signore, ” she said, “I have done what was 
right according to the dictates of my heart. If 
he ever comes back, we shall be married. If 
not, let God’s will be done.” 

She uttered these words of her own free will, 
and meanwhile two tears, emissaries of the two 
Alpine lakes, descended of their own free will, 
down her cheeks. 

“In that case, Signorina, there is nothing 
more to say. What you have done is sentimen- 
tal, but it is not practical !” And I extended my 
gloved hand. Then I arose and made a deep bow. 

Signorina Oretta could not have declared in 
a more explicit way that she had surrendered 
all her reserves to the national loan for the war. 
In any case it is a fact that women have a ten- 
dency to sacrifice themselves to men of the 
sanguinary type. It seemed to me that I should 
not lower my dignity by further insistence. Con- 
tinue to weep, Signorina Oretta, continue to 
weep! When the gentleman comes back, if he 
ever does come, he will find nothing left but 
a nose, some hair, and four crossed bones, of 
what was once the Signorina Oretta. 


CHAPTER XXX 


REVENGE IS THE FOOD OF THE GODS 

S EATED in front of my chalet, I was in the 
midst of drawing up a sort of final balance, 
when a shadow intercepted the light and stopped 
in front of me. 

It was Madam Caramel. At sight of her I 
felt arise within me such concentrated wrath 
that for the first time I believed myself ca- 
pable of a violent action. 

“Good morning, Cavaliere,” she said, with de- 
lightful tranquility. “ Within the week the 
white-washer is coming without fail to white- 
wash your kitchen.” 

“The white- washer? It is no longer neces- 
sary.” 

“But isn’t your esteemed mother coming?” 
“No, she has gone to Aix-les-Bains.” 

“Oh, how sorry I am!” 

“So am I.” 

( Silence. ) 

“You seem to be in bad humor, Cavaliere,” 
said Madam Caramel. 

“I? Perhaps I am. But you, on the con- 
242 


WANTED— A WIFE 


243 


trary, in view of what happened*, seem to me to 
be in far too good humor.” 

“Any bad news in to-day's bulletin of the 
war?” 

“In the bulletin of the war? I don't know: 
but there certainly is in your home bulletin.” 

“In my home bulletin?” 

“Yes, indeed. What? Don't you know? Why 
you've joined the colors! I am still astounded: 
that a woman like you, who are no longer a 
young girl, who up to yesterday gave evidence 
of mental balance, of a sense of reality, should 
unexpectedly decide to take a leap in the dark! 
If you were only leaping alone it wouldn't 
matter, but you are dragging your daughter 
and that good husband of yours along with you.” 

I was delighted to see that Madam Caramel 
was dumbfounded by my words. She asked me 
what had happened. 

“You ask me that? Your clothes are burn- 
ing and you ask me what is happening? You 
ought to know better than I. Didn’t you give 
permission to Signor Melai to visit here?” 

“But that is only natural! They are en- 
gaged.” 

“As to nature's part in it, no one could doubt. 
Indeed, I may tell you that three days ago, at 
half past eleven in the morning, on my return 
from Genoa, I witnessed a scene under that per- 


244 


WANTED— A WIFE 


gola that was only too natural.” I described 
the scene, but Madam Caramel was not aston- 
ished nor did she change color. She contented 
herself with observing that a kiss between en- 
gaged couples was an old established usage. 
“But, excuse me, what business is it of yours?” 

“You ask me what business it is of mine? 
That is the very point we are coming to. Mean- 
while, I want you to observe that this was quite 
a special kiss, requiring many feet of film, and 
for reasons of personal decorum I withdrew 
without a glimpse of the final exposures. And 
yet you are scandalized by the small amount 
of leg displayed by the girls in Milan ! But we 
will let it go at that ! Do I understand 
that this engagement was with your consent?” 

“Do you happen to know,” demanded Madam 
Caramel, “anything against Melai? A young 
man of honorable family. . . 

“I don’t question that.” 

“A young man who has always shown the most 
scrupulous delicacy, so much so that the first 
thing he did was to call upon me with a letter 
from his father. And on the other hand, when 
a young man has done his duty to his country; 
when a young man has been wounded, and is in 
a hospital, alone and miserable, and asks to cor- 
respond with Oretta, I leave it to you, was it 
possible for me to say no? If we honest Chris- 


WANTED — A WIFE 245 

tians won’t help each other, who is going to help 
us?” 

“That is a highly respectable attitude, but I do 
not share it. Your definite duty, on the con- 
trary, was to cut short this infatuation the mo- 
ment you were aware of it, cut it absolutely 
short. Probably you, too, Signora, have suc- 
cumbed to the charm of a uniform.” 

“Oh !” 

“Pray don’t get excited. Consider rather — I 
mention incidentally — the havoc it has played 
with your daughter. She was a lovely flower, 
and now she is rags and tatters.” 

“But we all must expect to suffer in this 
world.” 

“Who ever persuaded you to believe that?” 

Madam Caramel faced my calmness with the 
first symptoms of mental perturbations. “Oh, 
I feel sure,” said she, “that when my husband 
knows all, he will say : ‘You have done well !’ ” 

“I doubt it. But even if that was so, I should 
say that your husband is more of a poet than 
Cioccolani! Excuse me, Signora, but you are 
standing, and that distresses me.” I brought 
forward a chair and begged Madam Caramel to 
be seated. 

“I may be mistaken,” I continued, “indeed I 
hope that I am mistaken ; but you have commit- 
ted an imprudence, dear Signora, the conse- 


246 


WANTED— A WIFE 


quences of which may be incalculable. You have 
interrupted the prosperity of your family. No 
doubt about it ! Do you know how families are 
ruined? Generally in consequence of some one 
initial error which passes almost always unob- 
served. It may be signing an accommodation 
note, or a breach of contract or a lack of hy- 
gienic precaution, a reckless marriage, which is 
a clear case of a lack of moral hygiene; and 
that is your case ! After this, dear Signora, you 
can’t help matters by having your washing done 
at home, or keeping chickens, or making your 
own sausages and bacon.” 

I observed with pleasure that Madam Caramel 
was beginning to be visibly perturbed. 

“But when the war is ended, and he returns, 
they will be happy. Don’t you think the war 
will end soon? she inquired anxiously. 

“End soon? Why it is hardly a year since 
it began. Where have you been reading such, 
nonsense? In the newspapers, probably! Do 
you suppose it’s as easy to skin the Germans as 
it is to skin your pig? Ah, no! We business 
men know a thing or two. End the war? Be- 
fore that happens America will have to be roused 
with her hundred millions; and then Asia with 
at least another five hundred millions. Remem- 
ber that to-day, with the wireless telegraph, the 
whole world can be brought into the war.” 


WANTED — A WIFE 


247 


“But it will end sooner or later.” 

“That may be. But afterwards there will be 
revolutions* And if any one is to be saved it 
will be modest capitalists like us, who, if neces- 
sary, will know how to buy up even revolutions.” 

“But God will not permit . . stammered 
poor Madam Caramel. 

“How do you suppose that God with such a 
vast field to cover, can bother himself about 
little details? You still have time, dear Signora, 
to begin a restorative course of treatment for 
your daughter.” 

“But he will come back and make a position 
for himself, and when once married they will be 
happy.” 

“Let us hope so, but I have my doubts. Even 
assuming the happiest outcome you must not 
forget that that young man used to go on sprees ! 
Now I never went on sprees! Besides, as you 
yourself heard him say, he shoots young women ! 
Understand that I admire and am fond of Sig- 
nor Melai, but I doubt if he is the right man to 
make your daughter happy. But if she loves 
him, let her have him! Yet as time goes on 
marriage becomes a luxury that only a million- 
aire can permit himself. And all the while, my 
dear Signora, you actually had happiness within 
easy reach here in your home. I speak of these 
things with the utmost calm, as is customary 


248 


WANTED— A WIFE 


with me. But I wish to emphasize them! Ex- 
cuse me a moment, Signora ?” 

I went into the house and returned with the 
jewel case. Resuming my seat, I continued: 

"It was so, Signora: My eyes had rested 
with special favor upon your daughter, and I 
was not averse to asking her hand in marriage. 
It would have been a sensible union, without 
excessive passion on the part of the young lady, 
I must admit. But I do not believe — though I 
may be wrong — I do not believe that a marriage 
should begin with an incendiary period, like an 
incandescent mantle that must be first burnt off. 
No, I don’t believe it. At all events I cherished 
a hope, an illusion in my heart; but I won’t 
speak of myself. You must realize that there 
are plenty of others who are only waiting to be 
asked ! I am speaking of poor Signorina Oretta, 
who has waltzed through her brief hour of spring- 
time joy, and now must pay for it bitterly ! And 
it also wrings my heart to think of your husband, 
worthy man, who deserved to finish his days 
in tranquility. But I am impatient, Signora, 
to give you the documentary proof of what I 
say ; I do not bluff, I show documents !” 

I opened the jewel case. 

"Here they are. I went to Genoa on purpose. 
Here they are: these, as you can see, were my 
wedding gifts. Quite an assortment and all gen- 


WANTED— A WIFE 


249 


nine; rubies, emeralds, turquoises, the work of 
famous lapidaries ; and not a flaw among them !” 

Madam Caramel had not a thing to say. 

“Instead of seeing your daughter pine away,” 
I continued, “you would have seen her beautiful 
and happy, the wife of Cavalier Ginetto Sconer ; 
and a year hence you yourself, if I may mention* 
it, would have been a grandmother, and your 
daughter, in all likelihood — though Heaven for- 
bid! — would have been growing much too fat. 
Destiny, dear Signora! But now it would be 
quite useless to have the kitchen white-washed.” 

Thus I brought our session to a close. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


CHAMPAGNE, PEACHES AND HAM 

<4 T^THAT are you doing, Signor Sconer? 
V V Still leading a bucolic life?” 

“Alas, Contessina, that is what I have been 
doing; but now I am packing my luggage. I 

came to P on certain business, which has 

fallen through*. It will have to be entered on 
the debit side.” 

This time the Contessina had come to see me 
alone, without having the poet following on a 
leash. 

“It is fearfully hot, isn’t it?” 

“Do I disturb you, Sconer?” 

“You* perturb me, but you don’t disturb me. 
To be sure, I can not receive you with all the 
prescribed honors. Everything is upside-down 
here.” 

“May I have a glass of water, Sconer?” 

“Contessina, you are thirsty, you are heated, 
You have come on foot along that road in the 
burning heat of this terrible sun.” ( It was about 
midday.) “When I think that the skin of your 
adorable face, and of your adorable hands might 

250 


WANTED— A WIFE 


251 


be sunburnt, it makes me quiver with remorse.” 

“I bad my gloves and this veil.” 

“Ah, that helps matters.” 

“And besides I delight in the glad sunshine.” 

“Well, I don’t; in the summer I keep in the 
shade.” 

“And I, on the contrary, want all the full sun- 
shine; and in winter, I like to walk through the 
snow, when everything is covered with snow, 
and feel the joy of sinking into it up to my 
ankles; to draw in the snow with each breath.” 

“That is the time when I prefer a steam ra- 
diator.” 

But little beads of perspiration were forming 
on her brow. She drew out a little lace hand- 
kerchief that was quite inadequate, since it was 
no larger than the palm of my hand. Hereupon 
I produced two of my finest handkerchiefs. 
“Permit me!” And I laid one delicately over 
her forehead, and the other across her neck. 

“Sconer, you are veiling me like Isis.” 

“To tell the truth, I would prefer to reverse 
the process.” 

“You are very audacious . . .” 

“Contessina, I shall treasure these handker- 
chiefs which are imbued with your personal fra- 
grance. But what were we saying? Oh, water! 
The water here is at the bottom of the well, and 
the well is deep. But now that I stop to think, 


252 


WANTED— A WIFE 


there must still be in the pantry, a remaining 
bottle or two of an unlucky stock. If you could 
bring yourself to accept champagne as a substi- 
tute for water . . .” 

I had in mind the remaining bottles of that 
extra dry champagne which I had procured on 
the day of the dinner in Melai’s honor : probably 
some of that champagne had served to feed the 
flames that I was destined to witness on the 
morning of June 7. Alas, my poor extra dry 
champagne ! 

"It will probably be warm, but it will be 
quickly cooled if we lower it down the well.” 
The Contessina agreed delightedly. 

I found that there actually were two silver- 
necked bottles remaining forgotten in the pantry. 

The Contessina was enjoying herself. She in- 
sisted upon putting the bottles in the bucket, 
and letting down the rope by herself. 

“Wait a moment, Contessina.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Why if we lower the bottles like that, when 
the bucket sinks into the water, the bottles will 
float out and away; and who will fish them up 
again? Better tie them into the bucket.” 

She wag amazed: “Always so far-sighted, 
Sconer?” 

“Always, Contessina. System of our House.” 
We proceeded to tie and lower the bottles. 


WANTED— A WIFE 


253 


Now for the glasses. In the pantry there were 
many glasses, but none for champagne. There 
was an old-fashioned corkscrew, but it was of 
no use. This was the first time I had had occa- 
sion to use any of the “articles consigned to-day, 
May 6, to Cavalier Ginetto Sconer” by Signorina 
Oretta. What hopes I had, then! But those 
days have fled. Hope blossomed in the month 
of violets, and hope died in the month of roses. 
Let us think no more of it. 

There were no napkins ; but there were plenty 
of towels. Ghiselda discovered one of coarse 
linen with fringed ends. 

“That looks like a table-cloth.” 

“No, a towel. We have some like that at our 
villa, The Cypresses.” Did I say our villa? I 
fear that we have lost the villa of The Cypresses.” 
She made a gesture with her hand and blew up- 
ward, as if blowing a soap-bubble. “It’s a pity ! 
I was born there.” 

We now drew up the bottles. The sight of 
the cold water in the bucket attracted her; she 
plunged her hand in, scooped up the water in 
the hollow of her palm, and amused herself by 
letting it trickle back. 

“Do you know what Pindar called water?” 

“I am sorry to say . . .” 

“And you know what St. Francis called it? 
‘Humble and chaste’ ! ” 


254 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“Oh, the poor man! But we are going to 
drink champagne.” 

I cut the wires, and the cork popped : Ping ! 
The champagne spattered over us, but the Con- 
tessina drank. 

“Drinking is delicious,” she exclaimed, “when 
one is thirsty.” 

I thought so too. 

“Are there any biscuits, Seoner?” 

“There were plenty, and chocolates too. But 
there are none left! Are you hungry, Contes- 
sina?” 

“Good Heavens, yes.” 

I looked in amazement at that marvelous crea- 
ture, subject like the rest of us to the laws of 
hunger; but such things are likely to happen 
around midday. A luminous idea flashed upon 
me. 

“Contessina, what if we have luncheon to- 
gether?” 

“Here?” 

“Yes, Contessina.” 

“Here, out of doors? Beside the well? Un- 
der these trees? Ah, delicious!” 

“All the more so, Contessina, because the well 
acts as a refrigerating plant. The only trouble 
is, there is nothing to eat. Wait a moment, 
though.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


255 


I left her and hunted up Lisetta, to whom I 
explained the emergency, and begged her to 
bring something, anything, only quickly. 

On returning I said to the Contessina, “We 
shall need some plates and knives and forks.” 
(There was the pantry with the articles con- 
signed to the one-time Cavalier Ginetto Sconer. ) 

“Let me do that,” said she. She insisted on 
laying the table, and I was obliged to let her 
have her way. 

“Contessina,” I suggested, “if we are going 
to . . .” (I hesitated, for how could I bring 
myself to utter such a vulgar word as eat?) 
“If we are going to partake of a little luncheon, 
I think that it would be better to carry the 
table out of doors first, and set it afterwards.” 

We transported a little table to a spot be- 
side the well, and near the hedge, under the shade 
trees. After which, she commanded me to sit 
down and wait. I quivered with pleasure at 
being ordered about by her. While she came 
and went, setting the table, I sat admiring her. 

“Contessina,” said I, “permit me to pay you a 
compliment. You remind me of those marvel- 
ous chamber-maids that are to be found only in 
the novels of my friend, Lionello.” 

She laughed. As she came and went the gen- 
erous outlines of her figure danced rhythmically. 


256 


WANTED— A WIFE 


Ah, summer time, considering the scanty rai- 
ment young women wear now-a-days, you are 
a terrible season! 

“Contessina, permit me to pay you another 
compliment ?” 

She was wearing two modest low-heeled gray 
slippers which outlined the form of a foot as 
daintily shaped as a melon seed, and two pearl 
buckles were their only ornaments. 

“Contessina,” said I, “until now I believed 
that Louis Quinze heels represented the very 
height of fashion, but you have taught me better. 
Your little slippers are the pearl gray gloves 
of your incomparable extremities.” 

She stood still, looked at me, with her inim- 
itable look, and said: 

“Do you know, Sconer, that you are talking 
nonsense?” 

“Anything is possible, Contessina.” I felt 
as though I was floating on air. 

Maioli’s words came back to mind: that Ghi- 
selda was the trimmest craft that ever sailed 
the feminine ocean. Was I already being 
carried out to sea? *1 was alarmed, and yet at 
the same time I experienced a joy that gave me 
double life. Good Heavens ! Could this be the 
bacillus of love of which Dr. Pertusius spoke? 
“Come to my rescue, Dr. Pertusius! No, let 


WANTED — A WIFE 


257 


me die. It is so pleasant to die like this. The 
universe opens before me through her eyes; her 
golden hair suffocates me. Calm down, Ginetto 
Sconer!” Thereupon I said: 

“I shall never forget, Contessina, this inau- 
gural day.” 

“Why, Signor Sconer?” 

“Can you ask me that?* To be served at table 
by you! Permit me to note down this memor- 
able date : June 15 ! It will serve as a counter- 
poise to another ill-omened date.” 

“Have we everything on the table now?” she 
asked me, smiling. 

“There is just one thing lacking, and then it 
will be complete.” 

“Ah, yes, flowers, we want some flowers.” 

There were still some lilies in the garden. 
She picked them, or rather she tried to pick 
them, but the stems resisted. Hereupon I took 
my silver penknife from my pocket, opened the 
blade, and offered it to her. 

“But you seem to have everything, Sconer !” 

“I have everything, Contessina.” 

Accordingly, she cut the lilies. She smelled 
of them and sighed : “Ah ! Delicious lilies ! 
Smell of them, Sconer!” 

“Yes, delicious; but they have inside of them 
some annoying yellow stuff, do you see?” And 


258 


WANTED— A WIFE 


I brushed off the yellow stuff which had adhered 
.to the tip of my nose, and — “By your leave!” — 
also to hers. 

“Supposing,” said I, “that we pick some roses 
instead.” I picked a rose, and smelled of it, 
but I saw two little beasts crawling out. “Hor- 
rors!” The Contessina laughed, but I shook 
the rose, and trod on the two little beasts. 

“What have you done, Sconer? You have 
killed two pretty little beetles.” 

“But what were they doing inside my roses?” 

“They were courting,” said the Contessina. 
“And the rose was their perfumed bridal cham- 
ber.” 

“Fortunate little beetles,” said I, sighing. 

She took the rose and put it with the lilies 
in a caraffe which she placed on the table. 
“Now, all is ready!” said she. 

“I am sorry,” said I, “but there is still one 
thing lacking.” 

“Dear me! What is it?” 

She looked, but missed nothing. 

“The salt, Contessina.” 

Hereupon Lisetta arrived with an opulent 
platter of sliced ham, so rosy, so spiritual, that 
I marveled at the mysteries of nature that has 
created such an unclean beast in order to furnish 
such distinguished food. The Contessina seated 
herself and ate. How interesting it was to see 


WANTED — A WIFE 


259 


her eat ! A rosy slice disappeared within a rosy 
month. It seemed as though she was consuming 
fondants. 

“Do you know, Sconer, that this ham is de- 
licious ?” 

“I agree with you.” (It must have been an 
older brother of Madam Caramel’s pig. ) 

“Excuse me, but aren’t you afraid that if 
you eat so much ham you will hurt your diges- 
tion?” 

“Hurt my digestion, Sconer? How can I? I 
was never aware that I had such a thing as a 
digestion.” 

“But I have.” I sighed profoundly. “Well 
then, Contessina, it is agreed that water is de- 
licious, wine is delicious, the beetles are de- 
licious, the ham is delicious: everything deli- 
cious . . .” 

“Ah, yes, Sconer: perhaps even death is de- 
licious, but I have never had the sensation; I 
feel as though I was destined never to die.” 

“I, too, Contessina. That is to say, I see 
nothing delicious about death ; but what I meant 
was that I too have the feeling that I am not 
destined to die. So if we two should become 
man and wife, we would go on living forever.” 

“Ha, ha, ha!” She gave way to such a dis- 
concerting burst of laughter that one could see 
clear down her throat. 


260 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“Like Philemon and Baucis.” 

I did not know the lady and gentleman in 
question, but it struck me that she was treating 
the matter as a jest. Suddenly, however, she 
became serious and said: 

“Good Heavens! What have we been doing, 
Sconer?” 

“We have been having luncheon together, 
Contessina.’” 

“But it is compromising!” 

“I wish it were, Contessina.” 

^But you really are audacious!” 

I sighed. She gave way to a second burst 
of laughter. I was utterly, bewildered. Some- 
thing extraordinary was about to happen. Had 
the sun been too much for her? Had the cham- 
pagne over-excited her? I didn’t know. But 
beyond question the woman was Titanic, over- 
powering: she was joy triumphant. 

Think of living with her, touring the world 
with her in one continual, delicious tete-h-tete! 
Sleeping car, Excelsior Hotel, Palace Hotel. 
In summer, at the North Cape; in the winter, 
Oriental Express, Egypt, on one of those barges 
that ascend the Nile, like the one in the picture 
of Cleopatra. 

“What is the matter with you, Sconer?” 

“I was dreaming, Contessina.” 

The woman was famished. While she laughed 


WANTED— A WIFE 


261 


and while I dreamed, she had finished all the 
ham. What could I give her next? But the 
platter, emptied of Madam Caramel’s ham, 
reminded me that the same lady also possessed 
some peaches. She had them all counted — that 
I knew. But no matter. 

“Excuse me a moment, Contessina,” said I. I 
departed and I made a requisition of the 
peaches : An audacious act, I don’t mean by way 
of theft — for after all it merely paid up for my 
chocolates which Signorina Oretta had put into 
that young man’s mouth: — but because of the 
risk I ran of being torn limb from limb by the 
dog, Leone. However, I came back with the 
peaches. 

At sight of those peaches the Contessina 
fairly danced with joy. “That’s very nice of you 
Sconer. Do you know, I simply adore peaches !” 

I presented them to her. 

“Just see how fragrant they are,” she said, 
and held them under my nose! Poor Ginetto! 

“With your permission, Sconer?” She took 
one of the peaches and bit into it; she sank her 
teeth into the flesh of the peach. 

“Contessina,” I implored her, “don’t do that.” 

“Does it make you shiver, Sconer?” 

“I must confess it does.” 

“That is like mamma, she can’t bear to see 
me.” 


262 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“But in my case . . . it’s not for the same 
reason as mamma!” 

She stared at me a moment in surprise, with 
her lips still stained from the peach juice. 

“You are very sensitive, Sconer!” 

“Very, Contessina.” 

Something was about to happen that was go- 
ing to decide my whole life. I, too, like Madam 
Caramel, like all the rest, was about to enlist. 
Even if she couldn’t distinguish between assets 
and liabilities, what did it matter? “Maioli, 
Maioli, you are likely to win the automobile.” 
What was I to do? Throw myself at her feet? 
Too bad! But that has gone out of fashion. 

While I was thinking in this strain I was 
surprised by hearing her say: “Do you know, 
Sconer, that I came here once before, last Thurs- 
day? They told me that you had gone away.” 

“I was obliged to go to Genoa on a little 
business of some precious stones.” 

“Do you also deal in precious stones?” 

“Dear me, yes.” I fetched the jewel case and 
opened it. She plunged in her hand. She ex- 
claimed, scrutinized, and weighed. Then she 
said: 

“Very fine. We also used to have plenty of 
gems like those.” 

“These diamond ear-rings,” said I, “seem to 


WANTED — A WIFE 263 

me almost worthy of you. I should like to have 
you try them.” 

“It is no use ; my ears are not pierced. Don’t 
you believe me?” 

She bent her head on one side, and with a 
charming bubbling laugh allowed my hand to 
raise the incomparable silk of her hair so that 
I could convince myself that her ear was not 
pierced. But at the touch of that elastic and 
tender lobe, I began to tremble. 

“Then this ring, Contessina?” 

“Oh, yes. I like this emerald in its old-fash- 
ioned setting.” 

“Supposing,” I suggested, “that we try it on?” 
I took her hand. I tried the different fingers, 
and finally slipped the ring onto her first finger ; 
as I did so I quivered again. Leaning closer, 
I caught the perfumed warmth of her breath. 

She contemplated her hand somewhat thought- 
fully. 

“Mamma had one like that, only the emerald 
was a deeper tone. But I no longer care for 
jewels.” 

“Neither do I, Contessina, although! to-day 
there are many reasons why it is advisable to in- 
vest capital in precious stones. What we might 
call putting capital to a lyric use ! But I confess 
that I care considerably more for my modest 


264 


WANTED— A WIFE 


palazzina in Milan, and for my modest apart- 
ment in it.” And I proceeded to tell her about 
my palazzina in Milan, my own property; and 
about my apartment in Louis Quinze style, but 
with all modern conveniences. “It has every- 
thing, practically everything; it only lacks one 
thing . . 

She had listened to me thoughtfully. I was 
waiting to hear the charming question : “What 
is lacking, dear Sconer?” 

And instead, this entirely different inquiry 
burst forth : 

“Do you know what has happened to Ciocco- 
lani?” 


CHAPTER XXXII 


THE DISASTER 

W HAT the deuce! I had completely for- 
gotten him, and here, in the very midst 
of this joyous symposium, fell the shadow of Cioc- 
colani. 

“Is he ill?” 

“Worse than that. A great indignity! You 
surely remember, Sconer, about Cioccolani’s 
Attiliad ?” 

I felt crushed. I was still to be haunted by 
Cioccolani and the Attiliad, by the Attiliad and 
Cioccolani. 

“Well, Signora, what has happened to the 
Attiliad, that is, to Cioccolani?” 

“That great drama,” said the Contessina, “was 
destined for open-air production ; you remember 
don’t you?” 

“Perfectly : the crowds, the Huns, the music.” 
“We had thought of the theater at Albano, 
on the Latian hills ; but unfortunately the 
theater at Albano no longer exists. Then we 
thought of one of the large theaters at Rome, 
and we wrote to Rome about it. But Rome has 
not answered.” 


265 


266 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“It is the same way with the telephone ; Rome 
has a habit of not answering.” 

“I beg of yon not to jest. They have replied, 
but they raise a difficulty: the name of Ciocco- 
lani.” 

“It isn’t much of a name. Sconer is much 
finer.” 

“Perhaps you are right. It is terrible! To 
think that a father has the right to leave to a son 
who is a genius the inheritance of a vulgar name ! 
But the objection which those gentlemen at Rome 
had raised is quite different. They say : ‘Cioc- 
colani is not a well known name.’ He lacks pub- 
licity. Do you understand? The important 
thing seems to be, not to have created the Her- 
metic Songs y not to have created the Attiliad. 
No! But to get publicity! Ah, monstrous!” 

“Up to a certain point. But in business, Con- 
tessina,” I allowed myself to object, “we meet 
with the same phenomenon. We invent a pro- 
duct ; but the most difficult part is to launch it, 
to familiarize the name! ‘Get the name well 
into the public’s head !’ It’s like trying to drive 
a nail into a man’s head. Often the right name 
is a matter of luck. Take for example ‘Plak’s 
Pills!’ Any pharmacist can make them. But 
Plak’s Pills have caught on. Note the name: 
Plak! It sounds like a command. Of course it 


WANTED— A WIFE 267 

sounds like German, so people understand it all 
the better.” 

But instead of laughing, the Contessina re- 
mained silent. 

“Ah yes,” she said, “to you commercial people, 
the Attiliad and your drugs and plasters are 
one and the same thing. Meanwhile the poor 
boy will die of grief.” 

“For so small a matter? Let us hope not, 
Contessina. If the Attiliad cannot be pro- 
duced at Rome, it can be produced at Milan; if 
not this year, then in the year to come. It is 
only a question of waiting.” 

“Waiting? But he can’t wait!” 

“Excuse me,” said I, “but Cioccolani is not a 
lady in a so-called interesting condition, who 
cannot wait a day longer.” 

“But that is precisely the case,” said the Con- 
tessina, “because if peace should be declared, 
the Attiliad would be ruined.” 

“Don’t worry about that, Contessina. The 
Italian government prepared* for a three months’ 
war ; but the English government, which is more 
practical, prepared for a three years’ war.” 

“You console me, Sconer.” 

(What do you know about women! This one 
here, beside the well, wants war; the other one, 
over yonder under the pergola, wants peace.) 


268 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“Contessina,” said I, “I really don’t under- 
stand why Cioccolani can’t wait.” 

She passed her hand helplessly across her brow 
as if to say: “This man can’t understand any- 
thing!” And then asked me: 

“Do you know history?” 

“The history of what?” 

“History as recorded in books.” 

( Dear angel, I wanted to answer, if I had stud- 
ied history in books I would never have become 
manager of X & Company, Ltd.) 

“Why certainly, Contessina,” I replied. 

“Well, Sconer, for what reason did the He- 
brews conquer the promised land?” 

“Because,” I replied, “they saw a land flowing 
with beautiful grapes, and the Hebrews were 
thirsty.” 

“Bravo ! But it took Moses, the man of 
genius, to tell them: ‘Go and possess your- 
selves of those grapes, because you are the chosen 
people, and if the Canaanites deny you, you 
shall slay them !’ And why did Alexander con- 
quer Asia? Because he said to the Greeks ‘I 
am God, and all the rest are barbarians.’ And 
why did Napoleon conquer the world? Because 
he said: ‘Liberie Egalite , Fraternite.’ A colos- 
sal lie, but no matter! ‘Allons, enfants de la 
Patrie ! forty centuries look down upon you 
from the top of these pyramids!’ And why do 


WANTED— A WIFE 


269 


the Germans today wish to conquer the world? 
Because the Kaiser has said, as Moses did, ‘You 
are the salt of the earth! Deutschland uber 
Alles!’ Take my word for it, Sconer : the world 
is governed by a formula; every formula, of 
course, is a lie, and one is as good as another. 
But that doesn’t matter! The essential thing 
is to catch the imagination of the crowd. A 
small boy can drive a herd of cattle; a big lie 
can guide mankind. Do you not know that the 
public is crazy. That it cannot, will not, must 
not reason? But that is precisely why it 
needs the epiphany of a great sublime madman : 
the man of genius who can magnetize them with 
the electric current of his words.” 

I had a sensation approaching vertigo. An 
educated woman is wonderful, but a great 
strain. 

“Well then, Cioccolani . . .” 

( Good Lord ! Here is Cioccolani back on the 
stage again, that everlasting Cioccolani!) 

“Well then, Cioccolani is the man of genius 
who has found the decisive formula: ‘Do you 
want peace? Crush the head of Attila!’ Ah, you 
laugh, Sconer!” 

“I laughed, because I was thinking of ‘Do 
you want health? Drink Ferro-China.’ ” 

“But do you realize, Sconer, that if Ciocco- 
lani had been born in Germany, instead of be- 


270 


WANTED— A WIFE 


ing here to-day begging to have this drama pro- 
duced, he would be in the Kaiser’s following, 
in the great cohort of poets who sing his glory? 
You understand now why the Attiliad cannot 
wait a moment longer? That drama has an in- 
trinsic value, but it also has a contingent value : 
suppose that the war should end through some 
unforseen occurrence; Supposing, though God 
forbid! that the Kaiser be defeated . . .” 

“In that case,” said I, “Cioccolani’s formula 
would become an actuality, since Attila’s head 
would be crushed.” 

“And that would be terrible, because Ciocco- 
lani’s play would be done for. Now at last 
do you understand?” 

“Well, Contessina, Signor Cioccolani could 
write another one on the jsame theme: c Do 
you want peace? Restore the head of Attila.’ ” 

I felt as though I was 1 swinging through 
space. 

She had such a strange absent look in her 
eyes that I felt something akin to compassion. 
The sun had swung around and was hanging 
^above us; there was deep silence throughout 
’the country, and it seemed as if we two had been 
left alone in the world. 

I touched her gently and took her hand, and I 
said things that I still marvel at myself for 
having said: “Contessina, listen to me.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


271 


“What is it?” 

“It is this, Contessina,” I continued in my 
most insinuating tone. “Instead of thinking of 
all those tremendous things, of all those exalted 
men, like Moses and Attila and Napoleon and 
Cioccolani, have you never thought of a man of a 
more modest type, but more accessible, more 
practical . . 

She looked at me. 

“Yes, look at me, look at me, Contessina: 
look, I mean, at a perfect gentleman, method- 
ical, well-balanced, a faithful companion . . 

“In short, a husband, to use the accepted 
term?” 

“Precisely.” 

“With the usual menage?” 

“Precisely. What is more, a very good man- 
age” 

“That,” said she, “is exactly the idea of good 
Maioli and mamma.” 

“It is a good plan to follow mamma’s advice.” 

We were silent; then she asked: 

“And what next?” 

“What next? Why, perhaps we might have 
a fine baby boy.” 

“Who, I?” Her eyes expressed the utmost 
stupefaction. 

“Well, certainly not I,” I replied. “A baby 
resulting from honest collaboration,” I added. 


272 


WANTED— A WIFE 


Her lips were smiling, with a pale little smile 
that encouraged me. 

“What next?” 

“Why, then you would have to nurse the baby,” 
I continued persuasively. 

“I nurse a baby?” 

“You or the nurse, as you prefer.” 

“And then?” 

“Why, then the baby will grow up — a fine tall 
boy.” 

“And then?” 

“And then he will give his arm to mamma ; he 
will become the greatest comfort of papa and 
mamma; that is, he will grow up healthy, well 
conducted, methodical . . .” 

I talked on, and she listened docilely, as 
though fascinated. 

“And then?” she asked again. 

“And then and then! Why, then life will 
go on and on.” 

“In other words, perpetuate the species?” 
She stared at me with such amazed eyes, that 
I seemed to see the white specter of madness 
pass across them ; which prompted me to say to 
myself: “Ginetto, take heed of what you are 
doing.” But that day I was prepared for any- 
thing. 

Yet even I was surprised by this question: 
“In other words, perpetuate the species?” I 


WANTED— A WIFE 


273 


was facing a great battle. I filled the glasses; 
I drank ; so did she. 

“Contessina,” I said, “ I too have heard that 
marriage is passing through a crisis, that it is 
now an out-of-date formula. But for all that, 
what else am I to say? I still believe that a 
charming wife, intelligent and good, capable of 
giving and taking advice, wedded to a man 
who is healthy, well-balanced, intelligent — by 
Heavens, I still believe that to be a great insti- 
tution !” 

“Then,” said she, “I would become the prop- 
erty of a man!” 

“And the man, reciprocally, would become 
yours.” 

“And I would be the plaything of just one 
man ?” 

“That would certainly be the desirable for- 
mula. As for plaything,” I observed modestly, 
“It strikes me that the pleasure would be re- 
ciprocal.” 

She did not even smile. “What if I tired 
of it?” she asked. 

She asked this bold question so serenely that 
I fairly trembled, but did not dare to touch her. 

“Ah, Contessina,” said I, “what man possess- 
ing you would not strive his utmost to keep 
you from tiring?” 

She smiled as though she were listening to 


274 


WANTED — A WIFE 


some remote, old-time tale, and said: “Then I 
should do as other girls do when they are look- 
ing for a husband.” 

Hereupon I plunged into the whirlpool: 

“Contessina,” said I, “let me make myself 
clear: under existing circumstances you do not 
have to search, since you have me !” 

“You?” 

How tenderly, how lingeringly she uttered 
that ‘you’ ! Her pupils looked out at me ; I felt 
myself falling into them, as into a; deep sea. 
She was smiling. I don’t know why it was, 
but I too felt a sort of amazement when I real- 
ized that her ‘you’ meant me! I repeated: 

“Why not I?” 

She continued to look at me. 

“I don’t understand what there is so strange 
about it, to make you look at me like that. You 
find everything beautiful, everything delicious: 
the water, the flowers, the little beetles. It 
seems to me that you might find even Ginetto 
Sconer at least passable. I am a man of my 
word, and I will make you a Bassilissa in good 
earnest. You have a villa that you call The Cy- 
presses. You care for it because you were born 
there. We will assume that the windows are 
broken, the roof caving in, the whole place 
weighted down with mortgages. Well then, we 
will clear off the mortgages, we will put in new 


WANTED— A WIFE 


275 


windows, we will repair the roof. If instead 
of one baby, we decide that we want two, we 
will have two, we will have several. As many 
as you please: lots of little Counts and Count- 
esses, all dressed in white, playing in the garden 
of The Cypresses, newly put in order and with 
lots of flowers; and behind them an English 
nurse with purple veil. In winter we will stay 
in Milan, in my apartment, or we will go to the 
Riviera if the season is good. We will also 
take some fine trips, if you care for traveling. 
Doesn’t that strike you as a fine program? 
But you must get rid of Cioccolani and his 
Attiliad !” 

I had melted, as can be seen, to the point 
where I could have been taken up by the spoon- 
ful, as they say in Milan. I wanted to be taken 
up, but instead she said: 

“Oh, no!” 

She uttered this ‘no’ so passionately that the 
spell was broken, and I felt as though some cen- 
trifugal force had flung me out of the whirl- 
pool onto dry land. The blood was still pulsing 
in my head, and at the same time I could hear 
her voice, almost sobbing as she said : 

“Even you, Sconer, are against Cioccolani, 
like all the others !” 

“Do you want to class me with Cioccolani? I 
could understand some one else, but Cioccolani, 


276 


WANTED— A WIFE 


thank you, no ! I would not even do you the in- 
justice of believing that you could be in love 
with that Mordecai!” 

“Oh!” she cried, as though I had stung her, 
“not him, but his genius!” 

“Genius, nothing! When it comes to genius, 
look at me, who have made myself what I am 
out of nothing.” 

I was furious ; I had faced madness, poverty, 
literature, and marriage, for her sake. And all 
to no purpose. I might as well have been telling 
her a fairy tale; I had not even been honored 
with a refusal. 

I do not smoke except on solemn occasions; 
but at this moment I lit a cigarette, without 
even asking permission. I could still hear her 
voice, monotonous as the whirling of a roulette 
ball, still harping on Cioccolani; I could hear 
the words, Attiliad, genius , triumph, poor boy, 
every one against the budding genius. 

“Oh, I won’t abandon him,” I said at length, 
“if you care so much.” 

“And we won’t give up the production either. 
You will help us, won’t you, Sconer?” It was 
incredible! The woman’s obtuseness reached 
the point of being unaware that she had mor- 
tally offended a man like me. 

“How could I help? I am not one of the lit- 
erary set in Rome or Milan!” 


WANTED— A WIFE 


277 


“But aren’t you a friend of Lionello?” 

“Suppose lam? What has Lionello to do with 
it?” 

“Lionello is a shining light! a successful 
writer, above all envy, a contributor to the lead- 
ing magazines and the big dailies. I am sure 
he would be generous enough to help a brother 
artist with some enthusiastic articles, such as 
only he could write, heralding the great and 
imminent triumph of the Attiliad. Don’t you 
think so?” 

“Hm-m ! I really don’t know.” 

“We had thought of touring Italy, giving 
readings from the Attiliad ” 

“Excellent idea.” 

“It is a question of voice . . 

‘“I see; he lacks the physique for the role.” 

“Meanwhile, the publication of the Attiliad 
has been definitely decided. We first thought 
of serializing it in one of the leading magazines, 
but we finally decided in favor of book form.” 

“Excellent.” 

“The publishing house in Milan, however, has 
sent a pretty high estimate : ten thousand lire.” 

“They are all commercial people in Milan; 
and besides, with the high cost of paper . . .” 

“His parents don’t realize what a son they 
have. . . .” 

“Oh, I think they do. . . .” 


278 


WANTED— A WIFE 


“And they have refused to give him the ten 
thousand lire. . . .” 

An interval of silence. 

“That is why I came to see you last Thursday.” 

A second interval of silence. 

“Sconer, could you lend us a miserable ten 
thousand lire?” 

“Ten thousand lire, Contessina, are never a 
miserable ten thousand lire.” 

“They are in my eyes.” 

“I won’t dispute it ; there are widely different 
opinions about money, which perhaps explains 
why money so often passes from one pocket into 
another.” 

She had come and seated herself beside me on 
a foot-stool, and stooping over, she began to 
stroke the cloth of my trousers. Her Kps were 
pouting and her eyes were pleading. 

“Please, Contessina, keep those hands quiet!” 

“Dear, dear Sconer, do me the favor. Of 
course the money will be paid back, because the 
book will have an enormous success.” 

“What book?” 

“The Attiliad.” 

“Oh, yes, the Attiliad! I haven’t a doubt 
that faith in success is the first condition of suc- 
cess. But I won’t go in for it.” 

“And why won’t you go in for it?’ 

“Because it is a line of business that I don’t 


WANTED— A WIFE 


279 


know, and the system of onr house is to have 
nothing to do with any business that we don’t 
know.” 

“But when I have told you so much about 
it . . .” 

“I don’t deny that ; but it’s no affair of mine.” 

“Well, then, Sconer, let us treat it strictly as 
a matter of business. Will you take a note 
signed by me and Cioccolani?” 

“Under no consideration.” 

“Then on what conditions, Sconer, would you 
treat it as a business matter?” 

“Do you yourself want to make a business 
matter of it, Contessina?” 

“Oh, dear, dear Sconer!” 

“Contessina,” I repeated, “are you willing to 
make it a strictly business matter?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Here is the proposition,” I began. “You 
want to bring out your Cioccolani’s Attiliad ” 

“Precisely.” 

“Then follow the example of Esther.” 

Her eyes opened very wide and stared at me. 

“Esther, as you must know since you know so 
much, when she wished to save Mordecai, made 
herself more beautiful than ever and presented 
herself before the terrible King Ahasuerus, and 
when he saw her looking so beautiful he said: 
‘Even if you ask me for half my kingdom, I will 


280 


WANTED— A WIFE 


give it to you/ You, Contessina, do not need to 
make yourself more beautiful, and I have no 
kingdoms to offer you . . . ” 

I thought that she understood ; but not in the 
sense that I intended. At all events I had be- 
gun, so I continued. “You are always saying, 
‘Overcome, overcome !’ It seems to me that we 
can overcome even this point.” 

“But I had barely finished when I received for 
my answer a very painful impression. The Con- 
tessina’s hand landed violently upon my right 
cheek. A sound like clack , clack resounded 
though the garden. When I recovered myself, 
the garden was deserted. I hurried out to the 
road. 

I saw far down the hill the skirt of her prin- 
cesse dress, tossing disdainfully above the little 
gray slippers. I fancied that I had heard her 
say: “Beast !” 

My pride was wounded. I had made my offer 
according to traditional standards, and I had 
been rejected; I had risen above this and had 
made my offer according to more liberal stand- 
ards, and had been again rejected and slapped 
into the bargain! 

I cannot understand it all. I made the Con- 
tessina an offer which was perhaps rather brutal : 
but it still remains true that I followed the most 
scrupulous teachings of feminine psychology: 


WANTED— A WIFE 


281 


namely, that a woman has modesty in. the pres- 
ence of the man she loves; but that she has no 
sense of modesty in the presence of a man whom 
she does not love. 

And instead I have had my face slapped I A 
slap that really was a slap. Delicious, I grant, 
but still a slap. 

My cheek was bleeding. When Lisetta came 
she asked “What has happened? Was it 
the dog, Leone ?” 

“No, it was a lioness!” 

Lisetta applied some court-plaster. 

Evidently it was my own ring which had pro- 
duced that’scratch on my cheek. Perhaps I may 
call it a self-inflicted wound. 

I call to mind the fantastic face of Dr. Per- 
tusius who seems to say to me : “Deep waters 
of sheer madness; but it was sincere. If there 
had been a treacherous hidden reef, you would 
have ended, Cavaliere, fast bound upon the rocks 
of matrimony. Have no regrets, but leave the 
ring to that fine young woman in proof of your 
gratitude.” 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


THE LAST CHAPTER MIGHT AS WELL HAVE 
BEEN THE FIRST 

HE following day I returned definitely to 



J[ Milan. I slept in my own bed, a thing that 
I had not done for some time. Dear, soft, com- 
fortable bed. Such a high-class bed, too! 

After so many emotions and disappointments 
I feared that I should suffer from insomnia. 
Instead I slept fairly well : which goes to prove 
that my nerves are sound, and that I am not 
likely to suffer from neurasthenia. For history 
records sad cases of madness and suicide result- 
ing from disappointments like mine. 

Nevertheless my peaceful slumbers were dis- 
turbed in the middle of the night by the vision 
of an ugly dream. 

My bed-room was invaded by German soldiers, 
with spiked helmets on their heads, and iron-shod 
boots upon my carpet. “What, are the Ger- 
mans in Milan?” 

They said: “Herr Ginetto Sooner , kommen 
Sie mit uns! v 

“Why must I come with you?” 


282 


WANTED— A WIFE 


283 


“To be shot ” 

“Heaven forbid! I hope you are only jok- 
ing” 

“We never joke.” 

Now for the first time I felt afraid. Although 
I have been in Germany several times, and have 
had the most cordial relations with Germans, 
I no longer recognized them. They all stood 
there stiffly in my room, and they all opened 
their mouths with protruding jaws, that made 
them resemble Dr. Pertusius’s congenital delin- 
quent. 

“Excuse me, but why am I to be shot? Is it 
because I have stopped doing business with 
X > & Company of Leipzig?” 

Nein! It was not for business reasons. It 
was because I had said that Attila’s head must 
be crushed. “So Attila will crush your head!” 

“Ill take your word for it. And to think 
that before you got such ugly faces, we were all 
good friends, and you were among the best pa- 
trons we had in Milan. But for that matter, it 
wasn’t I, it was the ConteSsina and Cioccolani 
who said that the head of Attila should be 
crushed.” 

“In that case we will shoot the Contessina 
and Cioccolani, too.” 

“But they are friends of Germany ! And be- 
sides, what they said was in poetry. People 


284 


WANTED— A WIFE 


say lots of things in Italy, in poetry. Believe 
me, gentlemen, if you keep up this system of 
shooting people, you will do some bad business.” 

Good heavens ! They have dragged the cover- 
ings off the bed! 

I made a desperate effort, and turned on the 
switch. These ugly visions were banished by a 
flood of electric light. 

I went to sleep again; but towards morning, 
all in a flash, I thought I saw the Contessina 
Ghiselda. She was reflected in the mirror that 
faces my bed. Her golden hair served as a head 
covering, but for garments she was clad only 
in her own beauty. She was as sweet and melt- 
ing as a fondant. 

Alas, it was not Ghiselda! It was Desde- 
mona opening the window, and a ray of Milan 
sunshine struck the mirror. A quiver ran 
through my heart. “Ah, Signora,” I exclaimed, 
“how' happy Ginetto Sconer could have made 
you !” 

I looked at my bed and remembered that I 
must stop in at the furniture dealer and counter- 
mand the order for a twin bed. I looked at my 
parlor and remembered that I was not to install 
Oretta there, nor Ghiselda either. My poor 
lovely, deserted chairs and sofas, my poor 
lovely rugs. Poor Ginetto Sconer, who must 
remain alone, all alone! A sudden emotion 


WANTED— A WIFE 


285 


swept over me that mounted even to my eyes. 

But let us think no more about it. I shall 
console myself by writing my memoirs. They 
will be useful in case the Revenue Department 
should put a tax on bachelors, as there is talk 
of doing; in that case I can at least prove that 
my intentions were good. 

What is more, I will dictate them. 

Having come to this conclusion I set out to 
find a type-writing office, in order to hire a typ- 
ist, when in the Via Dante, a man stopped and 
stared at me. So I too stopped and stared at 
him. Then he proceeded on his way, and I on 
mine. Presently he turned around and stared 
again. 

Evidently I too must have turned around, 
otherwise I should not have been aware that he 
had done so. Thereupon we both walked back 
and found ourselves face to face. 

“Excuse me, but who are you?” I asked. 

“That is exactly what I was wondering,” he 
replied. “Who are you?” 

At last we recognized each other. He was the 
pastry shop keeper from P 

“And you,” he said, “are the gentleman 
who . . .” 

“ . . Who bought so many things at your 
shop. Alas, yes, I am the one.” 

“What times these are, Signore, what times 


286 


WANTED— A WIFE 


these are!” he exclaimed. “The making of all 
sweet things is forbidden. Oh, didn’t you 
know? Ours is the only industry that has been 
sacrificed. Those fine tarts, those beautiful 
fondants , those sfogliate that made us famous! 
And those marrons glaces, do you remember?” 

“Ah, the marrons glaces !” 

“What are we going to put in our windows? 
Dried figs, dried chestnuts, and a few dates. I 
came to Milan for a supply of Turin cara- 
mels. . . .” 

This resurrection of the past was too much 
for me. “Deuce take your caramels! Good- 
day!” said I. 

I left the gentleman standing on the pave- 
ment, for it was he who had given me mislead- 
ing information about the rosebud of a daughter. 
Misleading information, whether in business or 
diplomacy, may bear incalculable consequences. 
However, let us not indulge in any more il- 
lusions : Roses, nowadays, bud wide open. 

The following day my housekeeper, Desde- 
mona, informed me that a young lady was ask- 
ing to see me. 

“Show her into the parlor.” 

I entered the parlor myself. Where was she? 
Ah, over there! 

It was the typist. She stood resting one 


WANTED— A WIFE 


287 


gloved hand on my Bechstein piano. One of the 
feathers in her little hat pointed down, and the 
other pointed up like the propellor of an aero- 
plane. Of her face nothing could be seen but a 
tip-tilted nose and one eye, because the rest 
was hidden by the hat. But that one eye was 
unnaturally large. Without the beacon-light 
of that eye, I should not have discovered her, 
because my parlor is large, and she was small. 
Her thinness was so impressive that it was al- 
most alluring. 

I approached her; she exhaled a violent but 
cheap perfume. I smiled, because I was sure 
that she had no idea that she was in the pres- 
ence of X & Company, Ltd. 

She gave me her name. Her proper place 
in my series of matrimonial possibilities would 
be “Signorina Z.” But I shall call her “Signor- 
ina Boneyard.” 

We agreed that she should come the following 
day, and I offered a salary in accordance with 
her services. 

“But are you a rapid typist,” I asked. 

In a moment she had stripped her arms of 
their long gloves, and worked her fingers grace- 
fully and rapidly before my eyes. Her arms 
were like two sticks, but her hands were lovely. 

But «he continued to stand there ; she seemed 
reluctant to go. 


288 


WANTED — A WIFE 


“Excuse me,” said I, “but is there something 
you want to ask me?” 

She said yes, there was something she wanted 
to ask. 

“Pray sit down.’ 

She settled herself in the depths of an arm- 
chair. After some hesitation she asked whether 
I was a married man or a bachelor. 

I was amazed at this indiscreet question. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but a young lady like 
me has to think of her reputation.” 

“That is no concern of mine,” I responded 
with dignity. “If you have any misgiv- 
ings . . .” 

She made no answer. She just sat there look- 
ing at me and smiling. 

“I beg of you,” I added, hurriedly, “if you 
have any misgivings, you don’t need to come.” 

But she still sat there and told me that no, 
she had no misgivings. But she felt obliged 
to mention it because . . . 

“Because a young lady like you has to think 
of her reputation; you have told me that once 
already.” 

She looked a little disconcerted; she rose and 
gave me a startled glance, just like a rabbit. 
Then she said: 

“Besides one can see that you are a gentle- 
man.” 


WANTED— A WIFE 289 

Unfortunately, yes! I am bewitched. I en- 
encounter nothing but Vestal Virgins. 

Sunday was our first session. In my Louis 
Quinze parlor; windows wide open on the gar- 
den; I was seated in my English easy chair, 
in white silk pajamas, when the young lady came 
in. I had a type-writer brought from the office, 
with a brand-new ribbon. 

I begged her to make herself comfortable. 
Her eyes widened with admiration as she looked 
out upon the garden. Now that she had taken 
off her hat, I could see both her eyes. Her 
small head was covered with little curls, that 
were very charming, 

“Ah, Signore,” she exclaimed, “that looks like 
the real country !” 

That is the way it is in Milan; the moment 
they get a glimpse of green, they say they are in 
the country. Ah, the country! This girl still 
believes in the virtue of the country! But 
it is only an illusion. 

But that is not the real reason. It is because 
she is anaemic and ought to be in the country. 
But how could that be managed? I ask my- 
self. She is a working girl, and has to support 
herself by her own honest efforts. 

“It’s not so easy for a young lady to support 
herself by her own honest efforts!” 1 


290 


WANTED— A WIFE 


She made no reply to this combined question 
and exclamation. I pointed to the table where 
I had the typing machine placed, and began to 
dictate: “Cav — no, write it out in full — Cava- 
lier Ginetto Sooner . . .” 

She took it down ; but all at once she 
interrupted herself to ask : “Please, may 
I have a foot-stool? My feet are in mid- 
air” 

I looked and saw that her feet, indeed, did not 
reach the ground. I rang, and* Desdemona ap- 
peared. “Desdemona, please bring a foot-stool 
for the Signorina’ s lower extremities.”* (It 
struck me that Desdemona did not obey with the 
alacrity that constitutes one of her recommen- 
dations. ) 

Thereupon I continued: Cavaliere Ginetto 
Sooner , ruddy complexion , physiognomy diffus- 
ing intelligence and courage ; sound throughout 
-• — hair , teeth , physique . 

Here the Signorina interrupted ; she ventured 
to look directly at me, with that impertinent, 
tip til ted nose, and then began to laugh. It 
struck me as rather daring. 

What was there to laugh at? “Let us go on, 
Signorina: That’s me!” 

Another burst of laughter; then she asked, 
“What, you?” 

“Yes, me. Why not? Doesn’t the original 


WANTED— A WIFE 291 

correspond with the portrait? However, let 
us go on.” 

The tick-tack of the machine was resumed; 
but presently she asked : 

“Please, Signore, I am so warm, may I have a 
glass of water?” 

I rang, and asked for a glass of water. Des- 
demona reappeared with the glass of water, and 
with a face that was this time even more expres- 
sive than before. This gave me something to 
think of ; but the Signorina took no notice. She 
took the glass from Desdemona’s tray and 
drank. She drank daintily, and she too said: 
“Delicious !” 

This word perturbed me. Ah, sweet melan- 
choly! That day beside the well; everything 
delicious, the water, the champagne, even death; 
everything, excepting Ginetto Sconer. 

“Let us go on, Signorina.” 

But a little later she interrupted again, and 
said in amazement; “Why, this is a novel!” 

“Do you think so? These are my memoirs.” 

“Oh, no, this is a novel. I know something 
about literature.” 

“So you too know about literature?” 

“Of course, I have studied the technique. Oh, 
but it’s delicious, delicious, delicious!” 

“What is?” 

“This novel!” And she burst into another 


292 


WANTED — A WIFE 


laugh that reminded me of the shrill peals of the 
Contessina Ghiselda. But as she laughed the 
foot-stool slid out, she lost her equilibrium, and 
fell forward into my arms. 

“Oh, excuse me, Signore, excuse me!” 

I caught her and restored her to equilibrium, 
but in the course of this operation I was forced to 
observe that underneath that simple frock there 
was a solidity and amplitude that one w T ould 
not have suspected. Really, these stunted flow- 
ers growing from the asphalt of Milan, are more 
solid and tenacious than one would believe at 
first sight. 

I could not well explain how it came about: 
I had begun by dictating my memoirs, and I 
ended up with a young woman in my arms. 

We postponed the dictation. For that mat- 
ter it is a well known fact, even in ministerial 
circles, that typewriting tends to complicate 
office routine rather than to simplify it. 

When she learned that I was director of 

X & Company, Ltd., she was filled with 

admiration. This compensated me for my out- 
raged feelings at the hands of that stupid 
Oretta. 

I told her my misadventure, and she sympa- 
thized with me. “Oh, poor Signore ! But those 


WANTED — A WIFE 


293 


young women/’ she said, “simply had no com- 
mon sense !” That was always the way it struck 
me, but I would not have dared to say so. 

I am amazed: I have wasted so much time 
looking for some one who would tell me, “I am 
very fond of you,” and there is Signorina Z. re- 
peating to me all the time? “What a dear you 
are, Ginetto!” 

To be sure, Signorina Z. is a substitute; but 
we live in an age of substitutes; she does not 
come up to the requirements of my heir; but 
for a long time we have heard it said that heirs 
should be abolished. In this case let us think 
only of our personal happiness. 

I have passed several pleasant hours with 
Signorina Z. She talks charmingly, indulges in 
no stupid nonsense, she knows the names of the 
motion picture films and of the “movie” stars; 
she has her own ideas about fashions and styles, 
and is enthusiastic over the specialities of my 
firm. She treats love as a part of the ordinary 
routine. She has her own sense of decorum, and 
abundant respectability. I can perfectly well 
take her with me to any place that I would go 
myself. Fundamentally she represents a class 
which is steadily asserting itself more and more : 
the proletariat — a soft handed, I might even say, 
intellectual proletariat, but unmistakable just 


294 


WANTED— A WIFE 


the same. She will ably play her part in my 
household. 

But all this time I have been forgetting: I 
really must send twenty lire to Dr. Pertusius for 
his services. 


THE END 


















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